Spectrum Inversus
by LunarCry
Summary: UPDATED 16th Sept 2007! An original tale of the much neglected mages of the Final Fantasy IX world, taking place in the aftermath of Lindblum's invasion by Alexandria.
1. Partners

**1: Partners   
**

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_"What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies." -- Aristotle_

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The rain was thick and heavy, and the sky it fell from a depressing, perpetual grey. Few peoples had ever been able to stand the kind of weather the western lands of the Mist Continent were assaulted with on an almost never-ending basis. The precipitation didn't always cover an area so widespread that it included the Burmecia Arch, either, but today was not an exception. 

The two figures walking slowly towards the Arch were garbed almost entirely in red, and seemed to be the only vestige of colour in such a monochrome environment. 

"At least they'll see us coming," the first of the two shouted over the roar of the rain and thunder with a grin, shuddering as icy water dripped down the back of her neck. "So they won't, you know, try to kill us after being surprised by our appearance?" 

"Always the optimist, Cera," her partner smiled, pausing for a moment to tilt his head forward. A funnel of the rainwater that had collected in his hat poured down and dribbled onto his sopping leather boots. "Does Burmecia really suffer from _eternal_ rain?" 

"I doubt it. Just enough to make it _look_ like it never stops." Cera took her own hat off completely for a moment, eyeing the pathetically drenched white plume stuck in the headwear's top and wringing out her similarly coloured hair; the loose plaits she wore it in were sodden and heavy, and flapping into her heart-shaped face. "You know, Eril, we might as well strip naked - these clothes are just weighing me down with the amount of water they're holding in." 

"You first," Eril jibed, and instinctively ducked the hand she swept playfully at his head. 

"Say, where did our guide go?" 

Eril pulled wet strands of white hair from his eyes and squinted against the rain in the direction of the Burmecia Arch. "Think he's waiting for us?" 

"Let's go find out." 

The two pressed onwards, and only stopped again when they reached the outskirts of their destination. The reason for their hesitance was obvious enough - their Burmecian guide was lying on the floor, the puddle he had fallen into on the way down laced with inky red streaks. Four other dragoons, only two of them adults and one of those elderly, were huddled near the gate to Alexandria itself, barred from their relative by an Alexandrian soldier each. Two others were hovering around the injured Burmecian, pointing their swords warily at him. 

"Not exactly the way I wanted to begin," Eril muttered to Cera, who was carefully donning her rose-tinted glasses. 

"Nor I. Well, let's just wing it, shall we?" 

"Don't we always?" 

With that casual admission, he sauntered closer to the Alexandrian soldiers. At the sight of a pair of new participants, the two nearest women tightened their formation and made sure that their weapons were in plain sight. 

"Honestly, there's no need to make so much fuss," Eril said disapprovingly. "Why ever did you strike him?" 

"He approached us with ill intent," the shortest soldier said uncertainly. "Who sent you, red mage?" 

Eril performed a graceful little bow. "Why, this Burmecian came for help, and we represent the Red Order in its entirety. How could we refuse when we heard that Alexandrians had arrested an unarmed family on its own land?" 

The other, obviously less soft-spoken soldier pushed past her companion. "Her Majesty, Queen Brahne, is quite explicit in her request that you interfering white-haired devils keep your noses out of Alexandrian business, so be on your way before we arrest you as well!" 

"Interfering white-haired . . ." Eril quickly bit his tongue. "The Red Order stands strictly on neutral ground. We are only here to uphold the peace. This family -" 

" . . . could easily have been planning a rebellion against Alexandria and have intended to use this border gate as a means of access!" 

The red mage raised an eyebrow. "I have an alternative theory: that, due to the absolute decimation of their entire _city_, they were on their way to a safer haven and only paused to _rest_ at this gate." 

Snarling, the Alexandrian soldier took another step forward, her sword poised. "Are you denouncing the activities of the Alexandrian Kingdom?" 

"My lady, I'm a red mage. We never pass judgement. Now, if you'll just step aside, I'll heal this gentleman and -" 

"Don't move!" She darted forward and pressed the blade of her sword against Eril's stomach. The red mage held his gloved hands up in automatic submission . . . or perhaps not. 

"You look overworked, my lady. You should . . ." 

He broke off and swung abruptly to the side, grabbing the trailing edge of his crimson cloak with one hand and dragging it over the soldier's head. She cried out in surprise, but her protests were lost when he wove a spell out of sight of her approaching comrades and let her drop heavily to the floor. 

" . . . rest awhile," he finished with a grin. "Cera, I believe that was your cue?" 

"You smooth bastard," his companion accused with a laugh, and nonchalantly channelled the downpour towards the charging soldiers with a flick of her wrists and a short burst of concentration. The sudden blast of water sent them sprawling to the cobblestones. 

"We're supposed to be non-violent mages, Cera," Eril reprimanded her as he knelt besides their fallen guide and cast a quick succession of healing spells about his shallow, but nonetheless nasty wound. 

"That _was_ non-violent. Now", and she turned back to the soldiers, who were struggling to rise to their feet with the force of the water holding them back, "we'll be taking this family back with us. They're exhausted enough as it is, and I'm sure you don't want us to waste anymore of your valuable time, so we'll just be off now." 

The torrent of rainwater froze in mid air and splashed to the floor as Cera ceased the spell and beckoned the cowering dragoons to her. They came with no fuss whatsoever, their fear still heavily ingrained in their wide eyes. Eril was helping the now conscious male dragoon to his feet and supporting him at the waist. 

"Wait! Queen Brahne will have your heads, mages!" one of the Alexandrians shouted. 

"I should like to see her try," Cera grinned at Eril. 

"I shouldn't," he replied, attempting to poke her in the side with his elbow for her cockiness and failing miserably with the dragoon's weight taking all of his attention. "Are they following?" 

"Are you jesting? Eril, I bet they've barely even got up off the floor yet." 

"Are you sure about that?" 

Cera craned her head backwards. "Well, okay, if you want to be _accurate_, they're actually _on_ their feet." 

"Oh?" 

"And . . . drawing their weapons." 

"Hmm." 

"And . . . charging straight at us." 

Eril sighed and adjusted his hold on his injured client. "Then I suggest we start running. Like, _now_." 

"Good plan!" 

*** 

Gathering the two cups of steaming liquid from the counter, Bobo carefully began to make his way over to the well-lit table in the corner of the room. He had been a landlord since he'd been old enough to drink, interacting with countless varied drinkers, and yet no one puzzled him more than the pair of mages who frequented his bar. The only predictable thing about them happened to be the purchase they made after every mission, and even that was unusual when compared to the desires of the masses: they were his most regular customers, and yet he'd never seen them purchase a single drop of alcohol. _That_ went against his grain. 

Normally, his waitress would have been doing this, but he'd dismissed her early because of an unusual lack of business. Setting both cups down on the table, he shook his head at them both. "I don't know. Most people enjoy a nice cold one after a good day's work, but you two defy nature!" 

"I like to think so," Cera grinned, flashing a handful of gil at him. 

He took the money in one pudgy hand, dropping the change into the front pocket of his overalls. "Whatever you say! Two herbal teas, laced with ether as usual." 

As the landlord returned to the bar to stash the gil, Cera sighed and sunk further into her seat. "Phew, it's been a while since I've been this tired. How are you holding up?" 

Her partner smiled, sipping carefully at his hot drink. After the first mouthful, his charmingly irregular features relaxed significantly. "Exhausted, and if my clothes ever dry properly, I'll be surprised. I can't wait to get back to the inn, but who am I to mess with tradition?" 

"Damn right!" The red mage lifted her mug in appreciation of said 'tradition', before taking a long, deep draught and sighing again. It had taken them two days of straight travel to reach Lindblum, but the family they had helped rescue were already on their way to see Regent Cid about seeking asylum. She didn't suspect they'd have any trouble at all. They'd only just returned from the castle themselves, but the two friends made a habit of sharing a drink after every successful negotiation. The hour was such that Cera and Eril were the only two people in the small bar that hadn't either left or collapsed due to the extent of their alcohol consumption. Considering that both red mages were teetotal, the latter wouldn't be happening anytime soon. 

"If you weren't Alexandrian, Eril, I'd curse that nation out loud," Cera announced suddenly, frustration wrinkling her brow. 

"It's never stopped you before," Eril said under his breath, covering his smile with one gloved hand. 

"What?" 

" . . . I said nothing." 

"I'll bet," she glared. "But, I mean, did you hear what those Alexandrians called us? White-haired devils indeed!" 

Eril frowned for a brief moment. It was common knowledge that red mages had white hair, an attribute that had nothing to do with age. That much was accepted as fact, even if no one was really sure how it happened. After all, no one was _born_ a red mage - it was something one trained to become, and hair faded to white as one handled more and more magic over the years. The majority of the Red Order was in agreement that the contact with the odd combination of both white and black magic could have something to do with the phenomenon. 

But the encounter at the Burmecia Arch was the first time Eril had ever heard of the unusual characteristic being invoked in an insulting way. 

"There is something very _off_ with Alexandria of late," Cera continued, pursing her full lips. "I mean, attacking Burmecia? Queen Brahne had no quarrel with the dragoons!" 

"You shouldn't judge, Cera, at least not in public. Doesn't do much for our image." 

She ground her teeth irritably. "I know, I know. But it's difficult to _stay_ neutral when the world is like it is. When things get personal. Don't you think?" 

"Isn't that what red mages are for?" Bobo interjected, pulling up a stool and manoeuvring his considerable bulk onto it. Cera and Eril automatically shifted the table to accommodate him - late night social sessions with the gruffly blatant but generally friendly landlord were ingrained in their behaviour by now. "I mean, neutrality and all that stuff? An unbiased perspective for when things _get_ personal? And a fistful of whoop-ass for when the people receiving the aid don't find it quite to their liking and get angry?" 

"Got it in one," Cera nodded. "It's just that lately everything political has gone haywire. And I do so hate politics!" 

"Is there anyone who doesn't?" Eril laughed, well aware of his friend's intense dislike of political affairs. "Eril the person, not Eril the red mage, thinks that Queen Brahne might be suffering from paranoia. Or even provocation." 

"Who would provoke her? No one will benefit from a full-scale war between the Mist nations," Bobo said grimly, shaking his head. "Still, Regent Cid was the King's close friend. Lindblum won't be touched. You can rest assured!" 

Cera laughed jovially at his confidence, but Eril raised the broad cup to his lips, lowering his amber eyes to the liquid within it. Brahne in her current state didn't seem very stable, and he considered it foolish to render anything safe. He certainly didn't envy the red mage whose job it would be to record the situation with neutral words! 

"So," Bobo said in a tone that suggested whatever he was about to say had been on the tip of his tongue for a while. "What do you think of these . . . these black mages?" 

"Rumours, and nonsense ones at that," Cera snorted. 

"The dragoons swear on their King's life that it was black mages that attacked their city." 

"There can be none," Eril said, supporting his partner's claim. 

The landlord's face crinkled with confusion. "I don't get why not . . ." 

"It's fairly straightforward," Cera shrugged nonchalantly. "White mages are in tune with white magic, and red have an affinity for both colours. A black mage would need to be in tune with black magic." 

"So?" 

"Well, black magic is raw, destructive energy." Eril shuddered. "No sentient being that exists can remain uncorrupted or even alive after having it run through their veins in its pure form. There are many that have tried . . . but it's either both colours or white. No exceptions." 

Bobo grunted. "Fair enough. You obviously know what you're -" 

The three of them fell into strained silence as every candle and lamp in the pub blew out simultaneously, leaving them in complete darkness. 

"How did _that_ happen?" Cera whispered tensely, and glanced over at the entry door - it was shut tight. No windows were open, either. 

The high-pitched screams that erupted from outside the inn were preceded by a booming explosion that rocked every object in the bar. Everyone still aware of how much they'd had to drink gripped the seat of their chairs as they rattled across the floorboards. A mere second after the vibrations died away, Eril and Cera leapt to their feet, securing hats and cloaks as they moved. 

"What the hell's going on?" Bobo demanded, as yet another resounding blast caused a random bottle behind the bar to fall free of its rack and shatter against the floor. 

"Stay here," Eril told him, gloved hand on the door handle. "We'll find out." 

The landlord seemed about to protest, but made no move towards them. "Well . . . be careful, you fools." 

"Will do!" they chorused, and pressed into the Industrial District's main street. 

*** 

The air was warm and muggy with the promise of rain - and greasy with the thick stench of smoke. Eril and Cera caught that much as they bounded into the twilight darkness of the street, and were almost stomped into the ground by a stampede of frenzied people that flooded from the station to the right. The two backed up against the door, trying to assess the situation. 

They had been partners and friends for such a long time that words weren't always needed between them. Basic communication could be achieved through subtle gestures and facial expressions that any ordinary person wouldn't even pick up on, let alone be able to interpret. This ability was useful in official negotiations, when they needed to talk to each other without alerting whatever parties might be present, but right now, with the screaming reaching fever pitch and the chaos around them increasing rapidly, it was invaluable. 

Cera slipped her crimson spectacles onto her nose - she was expecting a fight of some sort, and not without reason. Her vision clear, she nodded at Eril and the two slid amongst the crowds, heading against the frenzied flow of people. Most of them she didn't recognise as being from the Industrial District; had they fled from a different section? It would explain why so many were coming from the station. 

The city of Lindblum was immense, spanning many levels and a considerably broad expanse of land. The Industrial District was low in comparison to the other sections of the capital, but Cera could still see flames raging in far too many areas. Dark silhouettes hovered above the city, harbingers of doom illuminated garishly by their own weapon fire. The collective screams of the townsfolk echoed louder than the sound of the endless explosions. 

Cera felt a flood of patriotic anger flood through her body. Lindblum was her home, dammit! She'd been born and raised here . . . and to see someone so casually _destroying_ it made her want to spit fire. There was no grief - only cool fury and a silent promise of vengeance against the perpetrators. 

Everyone in the street flung themselves to the ground and into doorways as a pillar of fire erupted from the entrance to the underground air cab building, white-hot flames roaring out of the darkness and searing the small square. Cera shut out the cries of people who had not entirely escaped the blast, already allowing her blood to sing with white magic in preparation for healing - 

And she quickly channelled the energy back to its darker colour at the sight of the creatures that ambled out of the smoking station staircase. 

"Impossible . . ." she mouthed, stunned, but the evidence was right before her eyes. 

Shuffling out of the blackened hole, entirely in step with one another, were lines of black mages. They could have been little else - Cera had heard the dragoons' descriptions of the inhuman monstrosities. Bulky, slow, and garbed insultingly in the traditional clothing of a master mage, their plodding pace was completely at odds with the sheer chaos that emanated from them. Beneath broad, pointed hats, a pair of blank, glowing eyes sat nested in complete darkness. 

As one, the black mages exited the station, pivoted to face the panicking crowds, raised their arms, and said, in a tone as dull and flat as stone: "Kill!" 

Cera's throat went dry as the air began to crackle with magic, and she jumped to her feet, pushing aside citizens of Lindblum left, right and centre in her frantic effort to reach the front of the crowds. The spell she intended to cast was already burning in her fingertips, singing through her blood . . . 

The mages' combined Thunder spell was powerful enough to throw her and many townspeople backwards despite the protective barrier she raised at the last second. A pair of strong arms caught her before she could topple to the floor. 

"Eril!" 

"We'll have to take them down," her friend said grimly, and helped her regain her balance. There was another eruption of screaming as the black mages began shuffling forward yet again. Backing up, the two mages glanced at the dark shapes in the sky. 

"Alexandria," Cera mumbled, and flexed her fingers. "Okay, we can defeat these. Right?" 

"I suppose we can try." 

"Damn you and your pessimism, Eril." She started to wave the townsfolk backwards, forcibly pushing those that were so panicked they refused to move. 

"Get the crowds out of the way, Cera. Into the bar or something. Then hurry back and give me a hand!" 

She knew better than to argue against his generally sound judgement, and continued to usher the milling civilians towards the inn. There were far too many to fit inside, but the Industrial District was the smallest of all three in Lindblum, and they'd be safer indoors rather than on the limited streets. 

Some of the people clearly did not want to survive. Cera wondered why the gods cursed her, as she had to slow down for those who collapsed into hysterics, or attempted heroism and charged back towards the black mages. There were moving bodies all around her, too many to count, most of them ignoring her shouted orders. 

Then she saw why everyone seemed to be running back the other way. At the top of the Industrial District's main street, flashes of ethereal light were followed by more silhouettes. More black mages! Their cries of "Kill!" could be heard even down here. How could they appear out of nowhere? It was a _dead end_ - 

"Eril! I can't -" 

Someone crashed into her right side, knocking the wind from her completely. She managed to avoid falling over, which could well have been deadly in such a narrow, people-filled space, but was pinned for a frighteningly long moment against an unmerciful lamppost. What scared her more than the fact that she could barely breathe was that she could hear both sets of black mages casting destructive spells, but couldn't see them - she wanted to know how Eril was faring! 

Losing her patience, the red mage thrust the heels of her gloved hands into a floundering man's chest, deeming bruised ribs less painful than what would happen if some control wasn't gained over the situation, and forcefully made her way towards the back of the crowds. More than anything, she wanted to make sure Eril was okay, but the rear of the group was already being assaulted and she was needed there. 

She reached the door to the bar and threw herself into it. The heavy oak portal swung open and she hit the stone steps with a profound thud. Shaking off the pain, Cera pushed herself to her feet and immediately started dragging people inside. 

"Sorry, Bobo, but I need the use of your premises for the moment!" she yelled at the landlord, who was standing behind the bar with a comically stunned expression on his face. 

Simultaneously hauling people inside, heading back through the door and cursing the buttered rolls from Benato's she loved so much that were almost certainly the cause of her not squeezing as lithely out of the doorway as she'd've liked, Cera noticed a significant thinning of the crowds. Those that weren't attempting to charge inside Bobo's bar were ducking inside other doors. 

The red mage felt a rush of short-lived relief. Still no time to spend on Eril! Grimacing, Cera tapped into her spiritual energies and drew forth enough black magic to cast a quick Blizzard spell on the flames, remnants of the mages' spells and the cannon-fire raining down from above, skirting the houses on either side of the street. She immediately noted an extension of this strategy and manipulated the rivulets of crystalline ice down to the cracks in the cobblestones, where they began to flow towards the group of black mages, not halting until they had reached the shuffling figures and laced their way up the enemies' legs. Cera kept the spell unravelling until the mages couldn't shift their frozen feet, and finally dropped her trembling hands, attempting to shake some warmth into her icy fingers as she moved to the right. It wouldn't hold them for long . . . but long enough for her to glance back at her partner. 

Eril had brought down three of the monstrosities with higher-level black magic than she had access to - her specialty was white over the alternative, with Eril enjoying more success with black. The balance was what made them so compatible as partnered red mages, but they worked best _together_. 

"We need help," Cera whispered, unable to spend too long on her close friend's status; despite his one arm clutching at an unseen injury on his right side, he seemed able to continue. 

There was a loud _crack_, and she averted her gaze altogether, readying another spell as one of the black mages pulled itself free of the ice at its feet. Clear of her trap, it raised its arms - 

- and stopped. The mage stopped dead, dropping its limbs back to its side. Its companions, who had been casting careful Fire spells at the ice at their encased feet, followed suit, simply going limp with inactivity. Cera capped off the flow of black magic through her veins, puzzled and uneasy. She exchanged a quick look with Eril, whose enemies had also stopped moving; he was taking the chance to catch his breath. The people who had refused or failed to find shelter indoors stood alone or in groups, looking around in confusion at the sudden silence and stillness. 

That's when she realised that the Alexandrian ships had ceased firing. 

They were waiting. And the people of Lindblum would no doubt find out what for. 

*** 

Magic is inaccurately named. There's nothing 'magical' about it at all - it is simply a natural energy, the driving force of elements and even life itself. Consequently, people who are 'gifted' with magic are simply people with the ability to 'see', 'feel' and, in the most extreme case, control these energies. Magic requires a conduit, and mages use their especially receptive bodies and spirits to bridge the gap and access it. 

Reception of such energies is a double-edged sword. Not all magic is welcome or even harmless, and the extent of reception varies from person to person. 

Which is why the incredible _boom_, and its successive wave of pure magic from the point of eruption, surged its way through Cera's feet- 

legs- 

body- 

head- 

And her vision went black with the force of it, only returning when she fell against a wall and smacked her skull against a helpful timber beam. Stunned, she struggled to catch her breath and only noticed the collective, foreboding silence when she looked up to see everyone gazing skywards. 

Even Eril, who had never been as purely receptive as Cera and hadn't been hit with the full force of the blow, had paused on his way towards her, his mouth open and his eyes wide, focused on something she couldn't see from her angle . . . 

Shaking the foggy pain from her head, Cera flew to her feet and to Eril's side, following his line of sight. What she saw caused any words she might have had for the situation to fly from the tip of her tongue. 

In the epicentre of that pulse of magic was a monster. It rose from the ground, a pale pinkish monolith in the dim light, easily the width and height of the city in its entirety. As it expanded, onlookers could make out its features, but they inevitably cared only for one: the clanking gate that began to slide up into the roof of a cavernous maw of a mouth. Two beady eyes sat atop this, emotionless and promising nothing but pain and devastation in their intensity. 

If it was at all possible, the sky darkened further. Cera became aware of a wind that was blowing towards the tremendous creature, her pigtails flapping in the artificial breeze . . . 

But it was no breeze. Just as it became difficult to keep hold of her clothing and balance in the winds, the windows in the wall behind them all shattered with a grating shriek. Everyone ducked, expecting a shower of glass, but the debris never got the chance to rain down on them - it was sucked up towards the creature. 

Eril grabbed Cera's wrist. She stared at him with wide eyes, for the first time in her entire life having nothing to say and no plans as to what to do to resolve the situation. She was nothing if not a control freak, and such unpredictable events terrified her deeply. His amber eyes urged her to keep it together, and she realised that he was pulling her towards Bobo's bar. 

He got as far as grabbing the door handle before Cera's feet were pulled from beneath her by the force of the vacuum. Timbers and tiles were wrenched from the roof of the bar and swirled up into the mouth of the creature. Horrible, animated people-shaped things were whirling around amongst the debris . . . and the black mages, too! Alexandria didn't even regard its own troops with enough respect to spare them from this unnecessary slaughter. 

Eril's gloved hand was clasped so tightly around her wrist that she could barely feel her fingers. But Cera didn't care - it had already occurred to her that she was likely to die any second. Numb fingers were the least of her worries. 

_Die._

The word sounded so permanent, so unchangeable. Was that because of the connotations it held? Or had someone simply selected an appropriate-sounding combination of vowels and consonants for its meaning? 

Typical Cera. Staring death in the face and thinking about the finer points of language. 

The door of the bar was made to swing inwards, and yet Eril couldn't apply enough pressure to it to make it open. She could see his grip on the handle loosening. 

Well, the terror was gone, at any rate. Cera knew what awaited them once Eril let go. As long as there was no uncertainty, she had nothing to fear. Besides, she was hardly alone, was she? 

Eril craned his head backwards, his narrow eyes gleaming. 

"I'm sorry," he mouthed. 

Cera shook her head, smiling. She let her hat fly from her head, indication that she was resigned to the likelihood that they would both follow it. 

"At least you're going to suffer right along with me!" she screamed into his face, and he heard, but didn't smile. How could he? He felt responsible for them both right now. 

Well, Cera knew there was nothing he could do. She gave over to the inevitable as he was pulled from the door and they were both drawn upwards by the sheer force of the wind. 

But things didn't go as easily as she planned even then. The winds were so chaotic that she slipped from Eril's grasp, pulled along a separate path in the tornado. Her acceptance of her fate was replaced with panic as she saw a huge piece of debris swing in front of him - and then nothing more of him. The sky swirled from black to angry, burning red, spiralling forever . . . 

Her mentality quickly degenerating into turmoil, Cera screamed, wanting Eril by her side and surrounded by open air and colliding with bodies and- 

The winds abruptly died down. Cera's upward spiral slowed, and then she began to plummet towards the roofs of the city. The colour of her surroundings blurred from red, to orange . . . 

To brown . . . 

To black. 

*** 

The monster had vanished, but had taken its victims with it. The city of Lindblum was burning, and behind the roar of the flames, the resonating shouts and cries of its citizens could be heard. 

On her flagship, the _Red Rose_, Queen Brahne smiled arrogantly at the scene below. The battle had been short and one-sided, but she was no doubt the victorious entity. 

Waving her ornate fan at the soldiers on deck, she ordered the ship onwards, right into the screaming heart of Lindblum, where she would deal the final blow.   
  



	2. Separation

_Author's Note: My sincerest apologies for the lack of updates. I'm very grateful for all the continued interest in both this and The First, and I assure you, after a lot of stuff has happened to prevent me writing either, I'm back on track now and will hopefully be updating more often Thanks for all the comments and interest! _

xxLCxx 

**2: Separation **

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_"Our duty is to be useful, not according to our desires, but according to our powers." --Henry F. Amiel _

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"Halt! I don't recall granting you permission to enter!" 

Kijo turned from the statues lining the smoking innards of the Lindblum gateway to find himself facing an intimidating slab of feminine muscle. The Alexandrian soldier was easily six feet tall and almost as broad; her streaming, valkyrie hair, dyed blonde in the traditions of the Alexandrian Royal Guard, billowed out from beneath her helmet like an aureole; and she appeared to be wearing a breastplate and armour two sizes too small for her; thus, her flesh billowed out of every available crack and hole in a futile attempt to escape its metallic prison. 

It didn't look comfortable. Neither did her temper appear fair. In fact, she looked psychotically aggravated and she was charging straight towards him. 

Raising his eyebrows slightly, Kijo awaited her arrival with good grace. It had taken a while for the Alexandrian troops to completely occupy Lindblum; if he had arrived only a few hours earlier, he would have avoided being stopped at the public gate, but no one could deny that he had made haste upon receiving news of last night's events . . . and his subsequent summons to the city in question. 

The woman stomped to a halt in front of him, peering down suspiciously. "You're a white mage, huh?" 

Kijo made a display of examining his crimson triangle-trimmed hooded shawl. "So it would appear." 

"Don't get cocky with me, kid. And anyone can wear one of those and proclaim to be a white mage. I'll need to see some paperwork." 

Sighing irritably, he lowered his staff and basket to the ground and began to remove his shawl. The soldier examined his possessions with a sniff. 

"What do you have here?" she demanded, pointing at the wicker basket with her sword, which was filled with bottles and vials of varying colours. 

"A few of the rarer curative items. In the letter I received by moogle, I was asked to bring any that I had to spare and could afford on such short notice. It seems that Lindblum's chief item store was rather badly damaged last night –" 

"Hmph." 

Kijo managed to struggle out of his hooded shawl, holding it under one arm whilst the other fumbled at the smaller pouch he wore beneath it. Eventually he dragged a few documents from it, handed them to the soldier, and yanked the pendant from his neck, adding it to his identification. 

"Is that good enough?" 

She pulled a quill from an indefinable place at her hip and skimmed the papers with a sour expression on her face. Grunting at their authenticity, she signed both the ID paper and the letter of summons from the head white mage and passed them back. Upon inspecting the pendant, her eyes widened considerably. 

"You sure you didn't steal this, _Mister_ Kijo?" 

Kijo narrowed his eyes in response. Usually, that was enough to deter further questions – the white mage's eyes were a steely grey and held all the qualities of that description: cold, uncompromising, unmerciful and unforgiving. 

It would take more than that to intimidate this woman though. Smirking slightly at his display of anger, she explained: "Well, you look a little young to have so many notches to your name. Just how old are you?" 

"Age is irrelevant." 

"I won't clear you until you tell me, _boy_." 

Kijo sighed impatiently. "I have eighteen years, if it's really that important." 

"And you already have three notches in your pendant?" The soldier whistled. "Quite the little whiz-kid, aren't we?" She tossed the chain back at him. He held the caduceus symbol of healing in his gloved hand for a second, fingering the carefully made cuts in the metallic figure's wings, before fastening it back around his neck and shrugging his shawl back over his head. 

"Is that all?" he asked coldly. 

"Just a few more things and you can go on through. Is healing and magerie your only item of business in Lindblum at this present time?" 

"What do you think? A lot of people were killed and injured last night. I'm not going to have time for a holiday." 

The Alexandrian soldier growled. "I hope that wasn't condemnation of Alexandria's actions." 

"I'm just here to do my job, the same as you." 

"A 'job'? The white mages that have come through this morning have displayed a little more passion than that!" 

"Look, are you going to let me through or not?" 

Pursing her thin lips, she growled. "I'm in charge here, kid. Last question: are you carrying any other possessions that you've failed to show me?" 

"Not that I can –" 

There was a cry of surprise and a loud crash from several Alexandrians further back in the entryway. They had been transporting a pile of confiscated material out of the gate, but were now on the floor being goaded by a small, dancing, squealing bundle of yellow feathers. 

Kijo grimaced. "Ah. I forgot about her." 

His interrogator had her sword drawn. "What is it?!" 

Said bundle of feathers looked up at the sound of the white mage's voice, shrieked a sound like "Kweeeh!" very loudly, and dashed up the steps towards him. 

"A chicobo?" The woman prodded it with her foot, which was promptly clamped inside the bird's beak. "Hey!" 

"Nuis!" Kijo tapped his staff against the floor. 

The chicobo chirruped sweetly, released the soldier and bobbed off towards him, moving with a most unusual crooked gait. With a sigh, the youth scooped the bird up under an arm that was already carrying a basket. 

"Nuis?" the soldier questioned sceptically. 

"Short for Nuisance, which is what she is," Kijo said, rolling his eyes at Nuisance. 

"You'd class it as a pet, or livestock?" the woman continued uncertainly. 

"Well . . . neither, really. She just sort of follows me everywhere . . . but if I must, then 'Pet' it is." 

"Not much call for lame chocobos, I shouldn't think!" 

"No . . . probably not." 

"Well . . . keep a damn good eye on it. Everyone's disgruntled enough as it is. I don't want that thing causing any trouble!" 

Kijo bowed stiffly, turned on his boot heel and moved swiftly on his way, privately thinking that it wasn't him or his feathered companion that would be causing the trouble, if any should arise. 

----------- 

It was dark and warm here. It reminded him of another time . . . 

They'd been out on a field trip, he remembered, when a sudden storm had struck the area, and they had been forced to quickly set up camp in one of those soft, yan-skin tents. It had been designated a two-man tent, but nevertheless they had been packed in tight, along with their possessions as well. They'd spent the entire night giggling over childish jokes and squeezing past each other in the confined space, like a couple of school kids, making shadow-puppets in the glowing lamplight. Eventually, they had snuffed out the flame and lain together in comfortable silence, listening to the sound of the rain and the wind beating against their isolated pyramid of solace. She had been resting her head against his chest, smiling at the ceiling, whilst he had both his arms behind his head, doing the same. 

The darkness and the warmth they had rested in were reminiscent of his current environment. But it wasn't so quiet – if he concentrated, he could hear voices . . . 

_Youlookalittleyounghisinjuriesarequitebadyousee- _

Soihaveheardiassureyouiamwellqualifiedandskilled- 

He couldn't make any sense of them – they were just background noise, blurry and in a dead monotone. The darkness and the warmth were losing their potency, however . . . and if they were going to leave him, he wanted to know what the voices were saying. 

He shifted, and a sharp stab of pain caused him to gasp, driving the darkness away completely. Colour and light flooded into his eyes, incredibly bright and raw, but it wasn't long before it began to focus. 

It was a room. A bedroom. And he was lying in its bed. 

"Well, I _am_ impressed. Nice qualifications you have there," one of the muffled voices interrupted his surprised surveying of the room. Now that he was fully conscious, he could tell that it was female. The words were somewhat clipped, but their surely aristocratic edge was dull, as if the speaker had spent too long among the 'common' folk. It reminded him of his own accent. "If you want to drop your things, there are several rooms. Just don't try the stairs – the upper rooms were completely obliterated in the attack . . ." 

The meanderings of his mind screeched to a halt. Attack? Oh, yes . . . he remembered. Up until the woman had mentioned it, he'd considered the terrifying night that was his last conscious memory only a dream. 

"Then I'll just take this room." 

The second voice was odd. It was cool and impassive, but was undoubtedly the voice of someone very young, and anyone _that_ young shouldn't possess a voice so empty and dead . . . 

"Make yourself as comfortable as possible. The situation doesn't allow for _that_ much comfort, granted, but you can try." 

The female voice again. Definitely close. In fact, it sounded like it was right outside the – 

The door creaked open, and a woman garbed in the traditional shirt, skirt and thick dark tights of a female red mage walked in. Her cloak was missing, but she was undoubtedly one of his own kind – beneath her well-worn hat, her feathered hair, efficiently cropped to chin-length, was white. 

Her misty blue eyes widened slightly upon seeing him. 

"Awake, are we? I had actually expected you to stay out for another day or so. Must be all that magic in your blood, hmm?" 

He gazed on as she delicately pushed the door closed with her hip, setting a basket filled with various bottles and containers on a tabletop close to the lintel. 

"I've been calling you 'the patient' since you were brought here," she said apologetically. "Think you could give me your name now, if you recall it?" 

"Erilauticus . . ." 

"Well, that's a mouthful and no mistake!" 

"Most call me Eril . . ." 

"Well, at least your memory's intact." She smiled for the first time, her thin lips not exactly embracing the expression. "I'm Faowri. I got here around four hours ago." 

Eril craned his neck towards the small, dusty window, wincing at the pain. His entire body seemed dull with it, an all-over ache embedded in the very marrow of his bones. "_When_ is it now?" 

"Ah, of course, you won't know, will you? Do you want a summary?" 

"If you would be so kind . . . ah!" 

"Keep still, would you?" Faowri seemed amused by his discomfort. "It'll hurt less. You're pumped full of white magic as it is." 

"I figured . . . how badly am I injured?" 

"You want the sugar-coated version or the raw facts?" 

"Raw facts." 

She smiled wryly. "Basically, you are the definition of 'bedridden', Eril. You were near enough mangled when I was assigned to you. Your left side must have hit something with quite an impact; quite a few of the ribs on that half of your body were either broken or severely bruised. You suffered a pretty nasty bang on the head, and you dislocated your shoulder besides." 

Although Eril had been prepared for a fairly blunt report, it still came as a cold shock. He dropped his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes with a sigh. 

"What _happened_?" he asked. 

"Queen Brahne attacked Lindblum," Faowri said with a shrug, her stern countenance portraying nothing of her inner emotions. "First she sent expendable black mages in, and then she . . . summoned an eidolon." 

"An eidolon? Don't be silly. They belong in children's fairy tales, not modern warfare." 

"I find it difficult to believe myself," she acknowledged. "But . . . you heard about Cleyra? Onlookers from the area around Burmecia said that a god on an eight-legged steed came down from the sky and destroyed it with his weapon." 

Eril fingered his bedsheets nervously. "That's absurd . . ." 

"Not long after that, I looked into these 'fairy tales'. Brahne summoned _Odin_ to destroy Cleyra! And there's nothing left now except some charred and tangled roots. Lindblum must still be useful to her, otherwise she'd have summoned something more powerful than Atomos to subdue this place –" 

"Eidolons _can't_ exist! Mages have spent centuries researching them . . . and have found nothing. Why would they appear now?" 

Faowri shrugged nonchalantly. "Who knows? I'm not asking you to believe me – I'm telling you the facts, as you asked." She threw him a sardonic smile. 

"You mentioned Atomos . . ." 

"The giant pink column with the rather terrifying cavernous mouth, if I recall witness statements." 

Eril screwed up his face in concentration, suddenly feeling like he was missing something important . . . Yes, there had been something resembling that description, something hellish and huge against the cold, dark evening sky. He'd felt so confused when she'd smiled at him while he had tried to hang on for dear life, gripping her wrist so hard that his fingers had gone numb with the pressure . . . 

And that was it. That was what he was missing. 

Cera. 

A howling cry erupted from his throat at the sudden jolt of fractured lightning that ripped through his ribcage, the direct result of his frantic lurching from the bed. Faowri clapped her hands against his shoulders, pressing him forcefully to the mattress. 

"Have you gone insane, man? I said to keep still!" 

"Cera!" he gasped through the pain, clutching frenetically at her hands. "Is she here? Is she well?" 

Faowri's blank expression caused his heart to pound even before she confirmed his harrowing fears. "Cera? I'm afraid you're the only person under our particular care right now, Eril. Who is this Cera?" 

"She . . . she's –" 

A hacking, wrenching cough cut his hurried explanation short and drove involuntary tears from his eyes, its agonising convulsions straining his dire injuries. He was only vaguely aware of his carer's touch, massaging his arched back, directing cool liquid from a beaker to his lips and down his aching throat. 

It seemed an interminable time before the unbearable tremors ceased, and Eril sank back against the covers, suddenly too exhausted to even keep his eyes open. Faowri's cool fingers rested gently on his head, her other hand lightly touching his right shoulder in case he attempted to moved erratically again. When he showed no signs of moving again, she gently released him. 

"Now you see why you should stay still?" she smiled, a softness to her voice and expression that had previously been hidden. "Get some sleep, Eril." 

"No, wait . . ." 

The words were released as a barely audible breath, and the man's fingers brushed against Faowri's sleeve as she made to move away. She raised both eyebrows in question, politely waiting for him to continue. 

"Her name is Cera," Eril announced, clearing his throat to indicate his firm determination. "A red mage, my partner . . . In the Industrial District with me, when Atomos attacked." 

A flicker of doubt crossed Faowri's face, but so fleetingly that her patient failed to notice. Instead he released her arm, settling back on the bed with a sigh. 

"Hair in two braids . . . wears rose-tinted glasses. Find her for me?" 

Faowri nodded, patting his extended hand before returning it firmly to his side. "Leave it to me. You just concentrate on recovering." 

The injured mage nodded weakly, his head lolling to the side as he succumbed immediately to the deep slumber induced by his pain. Faowri frowned at his suddenly inert form, the concern she had just barely concealed from him before now in full display. 

"What was that ruckus all about?" 

She turned sharply at the low voice, relaxing at the sight of white mage Kijo's young face peering around the door he had silently opened. Nodding at him, she stepped away from Eril and ushered her newly acquired support into the corridor, closing the door firmly behind her. 

"He wishes me to seek out a comrade he was with, in the Industrial District." 

The youth shrugged gracefully, regarding her with a raised eyebrow. "Then do so. His mental health is as important as his physical health. Any peace of mind you can grant him . . ." 

"I realise that." Faowri sighed. "But you don't understand. The Industrial District is . . . virtually non-existent now. What was left mostly collapsed after the attack. The casualties were . . . very high." 

Kijo frowned, rolling his shoulders in another of his indifferent gestures. "He survived, didn't he?" 

She blinked at the logic. And with the faintest wry smile she stepped past him towards a supply crate resting against the wall, snatching up her crimson cloak from its surface. 

"Very good. I'll check then." 

The white mage nodded as though there had never been any question, his perturbing stoic demeanour fading slightly as he once more reached for the door handle, opening it a mere fraction of the way to gaze in at the comatose occupant. 

"Is he stable enough that I can leave if I get called away?" 

The whispered request drew a sigh from her, and she fastened the clasp of her cloak before grasping the brim of her hat in both hands. "Ordinarily, I'd prefer him to be watched full time. But . . . he's past the danger point, and stable enough. The other white mages will know where you can be located – and I suspect, with all the damage, you _will_ be called for." Faowri propped the article over her pale hair, giving it a habitual tilt that mirrored her arched eyebrow. "Use your judgement. I'll be back as soon as I can." 

Kijo sniffed dispassionately, failing to award her a full response as she turned with a flick of her cloak and strode down the curving hallway towards the front door. 

It was difficult to hide his disapproval of the entire situation; between the frantic attempts to save the injured, the small, flaring Lindblum rebellions and the Alexandrian soldiers defensively assaulting anything that might be classified as 'anti-Alexandrian', it looked fit to explode. 

Oh yes. The only question, as far as he was concerned, was _when_. 

----------- 

Faowri's brief flare of optimism had been considerably dampened by the time she reached the Industrial District. Or at least, what was left of it. 

It was a building graveyard. Those that hadn't been sucked into Atomos' gaping maw had apparently collapsed once the violent winds had settled and the eidolon had been pulled back. She stood at the one-time entrance to the Industrial station, the contents of her stomach roiling tumultuously within her as she ran her eyes over the utter devastation. 

The district was near enough levelled. Not one building still stood intact – only the bar's foundations had remained rooted into the ground, but even that hadn't saved its roof from being ripped away, exposing the building's ruined interior as surely as if it had been eviscerated. A number of white mages were still rummaging through the wreckage, pulling out the occasional survivor, but mostly just more corpses to add to Alexandria's ever-growing list. 

Faowri clenched her jaw, stepping across the treacherous ground towards the sickening stump of a statue in the lower square. She was lucky to even be here – the air cabs were running to the Industrial District only for the use of the white mages. But they had been working since dawn and from the panicked haste in their efforts, she knew that they were on an Alexandrian-issued time limit. One of the healers had smuggled her aboard, thankfully, but if she didn't move, Faowri suspected she wouldn't have time to find anything of Eril's companion. 

The ground was treacherous, though, littered with debris and the occasional black mage corpse to hinder her step. Despite her vocation, the red mage had to swallow back bile at the evils Queen Brahne was practising. Faowri King hailed from Treno, which had thankfully been thus far left out of this idiotic war campaign, and as a power within her own city, she knew all about Alexandria's dirty fingers in the Mist Continent's latest dirty events. 

Her Majesty was clearly insane. On her field expeditions during her training, Faowri had passed the now well-worn sign of unity between Alexandria and Lindblum on her way between the two nations so frequently that she knew the wording by heart: "No amount of hardship can tear our two countries apart." 

Hmph. She suspected this would be one hardship too many. If the woman was being driven by someone, the mage felt that no punishment would be stern enough for the damage that provoker had caused. 

Releasing an irritated curse as the tip of her boot caught a stray segment of planking, Faowri took the moment of near-stumbling to pause in her exploits. She had reached the section of road that stood outside Bobo's inn. The landlord still lived, having been hurriedly leading a group of the other people crammed into the building down to the safer wine cellar when Atomos had been summoned. Those few who had made it down there had been promptly trapped into their safety by falling debris, but she recalled they had been saved already, protected from harm in the Business District. 

A pale-faced white mage was leaning against the edge of the crumbled doorway, staring down at the regurgitated constituents of his lunch. Faowri winced for the man, and quickly diverted her route to pass by him. 

"Are you all right there?" 

His tremulous nod wasn't reassuring; he didn't appear all that old, perhaps Kijo's age, except with much less experience by the look of things. "T-the . . . it's just, some of the c-cor. . . .bodies . . ." 

_Poor devil_, she thought with a frown. _I bet you thought it was going to be a quick snap of the fingers, a cure spell, and smiling, happy patients._

A pair of mages carrying a stretcher scuttled out of the 'door' and back towards the station – their burden was a vaguely human shaped lump beneath a bloodied woollen blanket. One pallid, crimson-streaked hand, bent at an odd angle to the wrist, dangled precariously over the stretcher's edge. Faowri sighed, turning her gaze swiftly back to the shaken young man. 

_Not mangled corpses and excruciating, unbearable, real injuries for the living. No wonder no one wants to be a white mage anymore, in this war-stricken day and age . . ._

"Hey, listen." She placed her gloved hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He swallowed heavily, turning his head to look at her; his eyes were both shadowed and raw with tears. If he was as exhausted as he looked, he'd probably been here for a long time. "I need some help to find someone. Do you want to give me a hand? Might take your mind off things . . ." 

And stop him feeling useless, Faowri thought as he quickly nodded his head, straightening from the wall to brush his hand weakly over his face. 

"What can I do?" 

"You look very tired. Have you been here since the beginning?" 

His acknowledging sigh was so heartfelt that Faowri couldn't suppress a sympathetic frown. 

"I need to know if you've seen a red mage get carted out of here . . . and what condition they were in, if possible." 

The young man remained silent a moment, but eventually ran his tongue over his dry lips, nodding vehemently. "I remember a guy –" 

"Not the guy." Faowri threw him an apologetic look for the interruption before continuing. "I'm looking after him, but he had a partner and he's very concerned for her. He said she had her hair in twin braids, and that she wore rose-tinted glasses." 

Pursing his lips, and straightening with rigid determination, the white mage turned and stepped carefully across the street, towards a pile of seemingly random objects heaped in one of the fractured doorways. Faowri followed him quickly, puzzled by his behaviour until she noticed that the items in the collection weren't usual debris – they were personal possessions, no doubt gathered for identification and reallocation purposes. Many families in Lindblum would no doubt want confirmation of their relatives' fates in the Industrial District . . . 

"I know I . . . I remember something caught my attention . . ." the healer muttered, interrupting her thoughts as he thrust his hands into the pile. He continued to move around it until a gasp of recollection left his lips, and he stooped fully to the very base of the heap. When he once again stood to his full height, he gave a frown of apology, and opened his hand towards her. 

Faowri swallowed, her fingers extending numbly to take up the pair of shattered spectacles. Their gold frame was twisted, and only a few fragments of pinkish glass still remained of the lenses. They were unusual enough to be remembered, but . . . 

"What of their owner?" she asked softly, her gaze fixed firmly on the glasses. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't remember. I don't think she was wearing them when they were found." He gave her a frail smile. "I'll help you look, still. We can ask some of the others." 

She nodded staunchly, closing her fingers around the spectacles as she finally lifted her line of vision to meet his. "Thank you. May I keep these?" 

"Certainly." 

----------- 

They had no luck. 

As the air cab rattled back into the station of the Business District, Faowri chewed her lip in frustration, waiting for the crowds to clear before attempting to reach the exit. 

They had asked every white mage on the scene, but many hadn't been there all day, having replaced plenty of exhausted staff who had been working since dawn. Of those who had, they couldn't quite recall. 

A red mage? Perhaps. We brought in quite a few near the beginning who were still alive. Some were dead. Checked the possessions? I'm afraid I can't help you right now. We're quite busy. She may already be in care someplace else. _Could you please ask another time? We don't have long left to do as much as we can . . ._

That had ended it for her. They were working far too hard to be bothered by her incessant questioning. If Cera was alive, she was probably in care. If she wasn't, the chances were that she had already been moved out of the Industrial District anyway. And if she hadn't yet, then she probably really was dead. 

She would search outside the Industrial District. Someone would know where she was, regardless of her current condition. 

The mass of dirty, bloodied white mage bodies shifted and began to filter out through the air cab's single opening. Faowri followed, straightening her hat to brace herself. She had the glasses, at least. It was a start – 

"Hey, you!" 

The red mage didn't even realise she was being addressed until the summons was repeated a second time, a spitefully intoned "Red!" tacked on to the end of it. Faowri stepped out of the flow of people, standing by the bench as she stared at the two Alexandrian soldiers who had yelled. 

"Can I help you?" 

Little and large – one was quite stout, the other petite. Neither looked particularly intimidating. They were in the process of pasting a piece of paper to the station's notice board. From here, Faowri could just about read it, and wished she couldn't, inwardly scowling at the Alexandrian assignment of a two-hundred gil fee per air cab trip. How kind of them to spare the life-saving mages from paying to do their jobs . . . 

"What were you doing up there?" Little asked impetuously, and it was clear that she was the one who had done the calling. "White mages only." 

Faowri calmly raised an eyebrow, shrugging in response. "I was looking for someone. The red mages are here to help the white mages, after all. Is there a problem?" 

Large clamped a hand to her flabby, armoured hip, but released little more than a grunt. Little jutted her head out, rather like a pigeon, her jaw clenched in defiance. "Y'should've asked, Red. We've had orders not to let your kind wander around so freely." 

"Oh, really? So, you wish for more people to die, then?" 

She regretted the bitter remark instantly, for the soldier drew her sword in a moment of heated aggression, pointing it steadfastly at the mage. Faowri's fist clenched at her side, the blood within it pulsing to a throbbing beat as she tapped the black magic font of the environment. She was fully prepared to defend herself, but killing an Alexandrian soldier would be akin to signing her own death warrant anyway. 

"That's far from it, you little . . ." Large finally made her move, strutting furiously forward. "If you have some kind of protest, perhaps you'd like to voice it to Queen Brahne herself. Otherwise, shut the hell up." She shot a sideways glance at her small partner as Faowri bridled at the insult. "It's the black magic, y'know. Makes 'em unstable. They shouldn't be allowed to walk free, if you ask me." 

Faowri released the magic back to its source with an infuriated sigh, smartly turning her nose up at the pair. "Then you should add red mages to your Alexandrian list of everyone else like that, clearly. Now, if you'll excuse me, there are injured to be attended to. Good day to you." 

_And a hellish night_, she snapped mentally, listening to their furtive muttering even as she swivelled on her boot heel to stalk towards the station entrance, wondering exactly what level the Alexandrian invading force would be willing to stoop to next.


	3. Humanity

**3: Humanity **

****

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_"Anybody can become angry, that is easy; but to be angry with the right person, and to the right degree, and at the right time, and for the right purpose, and in the right way, that is not within everybody's power, that is not easy." --Aristotle _

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The sky was growing dark by the time Kijo returned with heavy footsteps to his assigned, abandoned house. The door rattled in its frame when he slammed it shut, exhausted by his day's labours, and he regretted the heated action as the very walls seemed to tremble. It probably was _not_ a good idea to go stomping around these crumbling houses like a behemoth. 

Barely minutes after Faowri had left, he'd been called away, in the middle of feeding Nuisance half his sparse breakfast. There really were more casualties than he had anticipated, and he would know, as he had spent from late morning until now, early evening, tending to a decent percentage of them. He hadn't ever used so much magic in such a short space of time before; his vision was disturbingly distorted and he didn't feel entirely . . . _whole_. 

He could see that Faowri's cloak had not been returned to the supply crate, however. That meant she wasn't back yet. Kijo gave a gruelling sigh, releasing his staff with a clatter to the floor and stumbling against an uneven plank as he staggered towards Eril's door. He needed to check on the man, and also grab something for himself to restore his spirits. It was dangerous for a mage to overwork himself. 

To Kijo's surprise, Eril was awake, albeit barely. He had somehow managed to push his pillows further back against the headboard to prop himself up in a semi-sitting position, and now he was slouched against it, his eyes half-closed and focused drowsily on the snoozing bundle of yellow feathers in the centre of the floorboards. Despite his fatigue, Kijo rolled his eyes and stepped forward, nudging Nuis with his foot after making a curved detour for that exact purpose. He steadied himself against the tabletop and rummaged amongst his basket, not casting a glance back to watch as the chicobo unfurled her feathers and animatedly bounced to alertness, dancing around his feet within seconds. 

Eril watched the display quite blankly until she cried piteously for Kijo's attention. As if startled from sleep, he audibly gasped in a deep breath, blinking at the spot the chicobo had been lying in. The mage gently shook his head, sinking back against the pillows with a groaning sigh. 

"Is it yours?" 

"Hmm." Kijo yanked a frosted blue bottle from the wicker container, giving it a shake as he turned to face his charge. "Has she been bothering you?" 

A faint smile touched Eril's lips, and he shook his head softly. "No, not at all." The expression faded when Kijo made a haphazard attempt to reach a bench running along the wall adjacent to the bed's side, almost falling over his own feet. "Are you . . . quite all right?" 

The white mage slumped onto the seat and leaned back against the cracked wall, clutching the bottle into his lap like a precious item. "Just tired." And Eril's eyebrows perceptibly arched as he tugged out the stopper and downed the ether in one go. 

"You know," the invalid hazarded, his fingers clutching at the blanket anxiously, "you're not supposed to drink them like that. I mean, pure, that is. You'll feel it in a few days." 

Kijo shrugged weakly, running his tongue over his lips to remove the taste of bitterly strong alcohol from them. His charge was perfectly correct – he could already feel the acidic burn of the restorative spirit in his throat and chest. But, by the gods, did he need it. 

"If I feel it in a few days, it's better than being half-dead now, when my help is needed." 

Eril didn't appear convinced, but he said nothing, for which Kijo was grateful. He didn't feel well enough for a lecture from a patient. To draw his mind from the numbing tiredness of his body, he began the monotone litany of inquiring after Eril's progress. 

Kijo didn't think there would be a problem with his recovery. He'd simply taken a strong bashing from wind and stone, though the misery of waiting for news of his companion was lurking behind his droll eyes, shadowing any semblance of good humour. The white mage did help him to the room sufficing as the necessary, with some difficulty due to his own discomfort. Eril could walk, but with a noticeable and extremely painful limp. Kijo remembered to fetch his staff and deposited it by the man's bed in case he needed a crutch of some kind. 

Too soul-weary to grant him another curative spell, the white mage set a potion bottle on the bench, tapping the wooden surface pointedly. 

"If you feel much of the ache returning, take a draught," he advised as he climbed to his feet. 

Eril watched him with wide eyes. "Where are you going? You should get some rest . . ." 

"I need fresh air more." Kijo shucked off his shawl, folding it briskly into a small parcel to place on the bench. He tucked his caduceus pendant into the high collar of his undershirt. "That ether has made me feel nauseous. I'm not going far." 

With that the white mage paced slowly to the door, casting a look of appraisal back at Eril; the red mage was frowning. Kijo half-smiled at a sudden amusing thought. 

"Nuis will look after you." 

The chicobo cried out at the sound of her name, bobbing up and down beside the invalid's bed. Funny, Kijo thought as he tiredly stepped into the hallway and back towards the door. The silly creature was one of the rare entities who had ever been able to raise a smile from him. 

He did keep true to his word. 

Though the air was still greasy where fumes from the flames had soiled it, it was infinitely fresher than the stale building he was stationed in. A half broken wall edged what had been a tiny garden space outside the crumbling house, and Kijo was content to lean against it, his back to an empty window pane. There was still activity buzzing in Lindblum's streets, and the white mage, ever the people-watcher, stared in focused observation as he concentrated on settling the nausea of his stomach. 

Alexandrian guards stood as silent, grim sentinels along the street, occasionally conversing in low tones, and probably about the dispersed groups of disgruntled Lindblum citizens who stood about with nothing to do but curse their wrong-doers. Kijo expected some rebellious souls to react against the invasion. It was only a matter of time. 

A lonely black mage corpse was the focus of one large group's attentions. They stood around it in a loose semi circle, glaring fiercely down at the motionless bundle of clothes. Kijo felt an all-too-familiar sneer stretch his lips at their cowardice. The real perpetrators of the crime stood only feet away, and yet the fools were happy enough to hiss and cuss at a mindless puppet that was already dead. 

Cowards, the lot of them. 

Such uncharitable thoughts towards people as a group were not uncommon territory for Kijo. He admitted that he _hated_ people, a bold and unwise statement for a white mage to make outside the privacy of his own mind, for which reason he never did risk announcing his loathing publicly. Oh, his gift for magic was undeniable. Kijo could out-cast most mages twice his age. He had memorised every herb, every potion, every spell component, every healing technique available to the small number of white mages that still existed. 

And still he could only attain all but the last notch in his pendant. 

Kijo didn't particularly care for rank. He didn't particularly care for much of anything. He sometimes wondered if his indifferent nature might have been better suited to the required neutrality of a red mage, but that role didn't appeal to him. Sorting out differences between bickering nobles and argumentative peasants was not for him. 

He hadn't been given much of a choice, at any rate. His talents lay mostly with white magic rather than black. He didn't like the feel of chaos. It was unnatural, disorderly, unhealthy and he couldn't abide to channel it through his own body. Kijo found it repulsive. 

White magic, though. White magic soothed the soul, and it granted him a peace of mind and spirit that he could garner from nowhere, and nobody, else. Undoubtedly, white magic was his vocation. 

If only he could feel as intense about the people he had to use it on. But for every aspect of humanity that he saw, he was only sickened further. People thrived on selfish reasoning. As individuals they could be most amazing examples, but when together, their cowardice and prejudice knew no bounds. 

The reason he could advance no further as a white mage was because he lacked compassion. Afraid of losing his most promising mage, the White Leader had pleaded with Kijo to remain in his profession, to keep looking for an aspect of humanity that would instil the required compassion in him. 

But Kijo has seen nothing. He was only sickened and nauseated by the pain people inflicted upon one another, by their power lust, their selfish existences. His defence against such sensitive observations of the world around him had been to detach himself from it entirely. Kijo barely considered himself a part of the thriving races of the Mist Continent anymore. He was an empty entity, half-dead, mindlessly serving people whose very nature he loathed. 

And what could this be, but the end? Brahne's misdeeds were the very pinnacle of selfish and immoral behaviour, and he didn't know what he might ever find to redeem his species now. 

As movement caught his eye and distracted him from his thoughts, he knew without a doubt that he'd never discover it here. The group he was distantly watching had grown more and more agitated, one of the rough men even spitting on the black mage's inert, bulky form. One younger lad had moved to land a kick in the bloated side, the other men cheering raucously at his bold deed. Another mimicked his example. 

The Alexandrian guards watched indifferently, none of them making a move to halt the rowdy behaviour. Kijo was able to stand it for only a moment before frustration bit painfully down on his conscience and he sidestepped the wall, pacing stiffly towards the growing crowd. 

"What are you doing?" 

The assembled men glanced up sharply at the Alexandrian soldiers, suspecting the admonishing remark to have come from their invasive mouths. They were startled to see the silent sentinels making great haste away from the scene, willing to ignore the misdeeds of the disgruntled citizens if it meant a moment of peace and quiet and less work for them. 

As one, the men swivelled instead to fix their angry gazes on Kijo. 

He wasn't initially concerned by the aggression in their stances. After all, he was a white mage, and while it galled him a little to use his significance as a shield from any harm, he felt he'd earned the reprieve. That was why he darted into the growing crowds without hesitation, towards the dark, crumpled shape of the enigmatic black mage. 

"This is ridiculous behaviour," Kijo stated coldly, his gloved hands firmly planted on his hips, and he lowered his voice to a hiss. "You're attacking a _doll_ that can't defend itself while your real aggressors stand only feet away from you." 

One of the brawny men thrust his way to the front of the small crowd that had somehow encircled Kijo and the black mage, his already protuberant eyes bulging in outrage. 

"And what does it matter to you, boy?" 

His scornful tone was the first clue Kijo had that his rank wasn't going to earn him an easy time. Nonetheless, he plunged onwards with matching derision, sweeping his hand horizontally to include the gaggle of disgruntled townsfolk. 

"What matters to me is that you're choosing to attack some . . . some _inanimate_ object for your pains, and yet the real perpetrators were right there watching. But, of course, they're armed, and they have power over you –" 

"You wouldn't be calling us cowards, now, would you, boy?" 

Kijo couldn't ignore the second derogatory address. He opened his mouth to snap out a reprimanding reply, and suddenly realised that he wasn't wearing his shawl, or carrying his staff. He snatched his hand to his chest, but his fingers didn't meet the hard metal he'd expected. 

The first vestige of chilling panic writhed into existence in the depths of his belly. Even as Kijo caught at his high-necked collar with his fingertips to delve for his hidden pendant, the protests at the implications of his reprimand reached a worryingly raucous level. 

"Hear that?" the leader of the commotion snorted contemptuously. "This lad thinks we're cowards! He's defending this . . . this _demon_ over our interests. I think that says a lot, don't you?" 

The edge of the caduceus was caught on a fold at the base of his collar, and Kijo clenched his jaw against the threatening stares drilling their way into him. 

"So, if I'm such a coward," the grizzled man demanded belligerently, rolling up the sleeve of his grubby shirt with painstaking deliberation, "and you aren't, why don't you put your money where your mouth is? If you feel so much for this monster, why don't you take his bloody place, eh?" 

The second sleeve reached his elbow, and Kijo sneered at the notion, abandoning the trapped pendant for a hasty vocal appeal. Surely they couldn't be _this_ stupid . . . 

"You honestly think –" 

But a thick hand wrenched his shoulder from the gathered crowd behind, fingers clamping painfully into his flesh beneath the heavy fabric of his shirt. The heel of that palm drove relentlessly against Kijo's shoulder blade and sent him reeling forward with a sharp gasp, toward the soaring fist of the uproar's leader. 

The white mage was not experienced in any kind of combat, and the muscle he did possess was entirely due to his travelling far on foot – certainly not from fights of a bar-brawl standard. This did at least give him a different edge, which he realised as he slipped out of the path of the man's clenched fist with an agile sidestep. His initial thrust into the fray had thrown him slightly off balance, and he staggered to a halt in time to turn and catch sight of the second attack. 

Kijo deliberately collapsed under the flying fist, falling to a semi-crouch and scurrying away beneath the man's overbearing weight. The fresh adrenalin had at least dispelled his nausea, but his coordination still left a lot to be desired; he found himself almost tripping over his own feet, and disoriented by the wall of jeering people circling the one-sided fight. 

Almost as if he could sense that he wasn't fast enough to hit the far younger, smaller man, the rebellious brawler maintained his distance, his bulging eyes fiery with outrage. 

"Do you have any idea how many of us are dead thanks to this bloody monster, boy?" 

Ah, grief. Enough to drive any man to idiocy. Kijo scowled, aware that though perhaps he was being insensitive by defending the black mage, he was also bluntly honest – the creature was a weapon, not a killer. A machine, because black mages, sentient mages, able to survive persistent contact with the forces of chaos and still have their sanity and life intact, _could not exist_. 

But if it was only a weapon, why did it bother him so much? Because of the misdirected rage, perhaps. The cowardice of attacking the implement instead of the wielder. And . . . a partial sympathy for these creatures, created with no other purpose but mindless destruction; he'd heard of the factory in Dali. Even more failings of humanity, and Kijo could only stare in disgust as his aggressor compounded them further. 

"Actually," he snapped, "I know probably more than you do the casualties of this. Do you wish to add to them?" 

"Then fight back!" the man roared, springing towards him with a furiously raised fist. "Defend yourself!" 

Again, Kijo evaded the assault, swinging to the side and dancing out from behind him. He backed towards the opposing end of the gradually shrinking circle. Raucous denunciations of his 'cowardly' elusions met his movements this time, and far beyond being _able_ to keep up the defensive act, he realised he wasn't going to be permitted to at all. Once more, invasive hands flew from the wall of people, smashing into his back to propel him towards his ceaselessly advancing opponent. 

The man's ruddy knuckles clipped his shoulder with a stinging blow, sending Kijo reeling to the side. Falling to the paving stones, a surprising burst of energy surged the mage back to his feet with barely a second spent in the vulnerable position. A disappointed murmur rose in the crowd. 

Now panting with fatigue, Kijo spread his arms for balance as he veered between the lunging edges of the crowd and his wildly swinging antagonist. 

"You're making a mistake," he gasped, his eyes flitting from person to person as though unable to decide where to direct his appeal. "You don't realise who I am . . ." 

"You don't realise we don't care!" 

Kijo turned his head towards the callous cry in time to see the gleam of the whirling stone, before it cracked against the side of his skull. Splitting pain resonated at his temple, expelling a dazed fog across his vision and deadening the clarity of his thoughts. Staggering sideways, the mage struggled to recover from the debilitating blow, but his opponent was engulfing him and ramming his thick fist against his jaw with such force that Kijo was sent spinning to the ground. 

He struck the paved street with a sickening crunch, his coherence drowning amidst a sea of deafening pain. Propping himself up on his forearms and knees, the mage felt thick, dribbling fluid sliding from his temple, staining the already blurred vision of his left eye with crimson. The offending 'pebble' had already skittered to the ground – a sizeable chunk of rounded, solid black rock. He inhaled a shuddering breath, desperately delving into his disoriented mind for some phrase, a word of defence . . . 

There was nothing. Too dizzy already, Kijo felt the pressure of the man's steel-capped boot at his ribs rather than the pain, although he knew it had to be considerable; a wave of numbing weakness hit his joints and he sagged back to the cobblestones until his throbbing jaw touched the ground. 

A distant shout rumbled in his ears, belonging to a voice that he just vaguely recognised through his sluggish concussion. The words were too foggy to decipher, but Kijo found himself heartily glad of them anyway because there were no more wrenching blows from the big brute who had decided to start a fight with someone half his size. In fact, even the canopy of hulking figures surrounding him on all sides seemed to fall back. 

His distorted vision was making him nauseous, and Kijo squeezed his eyes closed over a flash of darting yellow. Extreme tiredness seemed to have descended over him, and regardless of the hard stone against his aching ribcage, all he wanted to do was sleep. 

But the squealing blur of yellow wouldn't let him. It pressed invasively against his limp arm, tickling his skin, tugging at his hair. He raised his head to scream at the annoying nuisance . . . 

And with that very word, a sense of revelation assailed him, sparking a channel of clarity through his disorderly mind. Though his stomach rolled relentlessly and the pain didn't secede, he fixated upon the bulbous beak of a chicobo pushing insistently towards his face. 

"Nuisance?" he murmured, and glanced up with determined coherence to view the disarray around him. 

The crowds had split, and were watching a man yelling at them from the direction, Kijo thought, of the house he was stationed in. A brief look over his shoulder confirmed the position of his assailant, who stood over him glaring at the intruder, his fists clenching convulsively at his sides. Kijo focused a little harder, struggling to make out the words of his saviour . . . 

" . . . white mage! This man has probably saved more of your companions and fellow citizens than died in the attack. And you're attacking him!" 

A wrenching gasp choked from the same speaker, and Kijo stared at him in surprise. Through the belligerent people surrounding them, he realised that he was looking at Erilauticus. The red mage was leaning heavily against Kijo's staff, his sling-cushioned arm wrapped tightly around his ribcage. Eril's teeth were bared, his jaw visibly clenched against the pain the white mage knew he was enduring to stand up practically unassisted. 

"Shouldn't have called us cowards," the leader of the fight growled, though he was scratching at his coarse hair in a vaguely regretful way. 

"Well," Eril snorted with more strength than he appeared to possess, "considering who you like to pick fights with . . ." 

He gestured pointedly towards Kijo, sprawled in the centre of the dispersing crowd, and the equally motionless black mage. 

Clearly the rebellious citizens were uncertain of the morality of their deeds by now. Kijo watched distantly as they began to filter off along the street, the brawny man casting him an unreadable look before striding stiffly away after them. 

It took less than a minute for the crowds to clear. No one seemed willing to attract any possible repercussions from the Alexandrian guards, who were conspicuous by their absence. Even in his dazed state, he suspected his first interpretation of their running away had been slight off – they were possibly going for back up. Everyone else seemed to think the same way, for within minutes, the entirety of the street was practically deserted. 

Eril waited until that moment to collapse to his knees, choking on his pain as he hugged his arms to his chest. The staff fell to the floor with an echoing clatter. Both young men remained in silence, neither addressing the other for what seemed an extremely long time. 

It was Kijo who broke the spell, stirring listlessly from his limp position on the floor. He blinked vacantly at Eril, releasing a tiny sigh. 

"You shouldn't have moved," he whispered steadily. 

"You shouldn't have started a brawl," the red mage choked back, his eyes clamped tightly closed. His skin was almost as pale as his hair and lightly sheened with sweat. 

"Go back inside before Faowri comes back and rants at me for worrying the patient." 

Eril ignored the order as though it had never been made, drawing in a final shallow breath and holding it as he shuffled towards Kijo with his knees and feet, keeping his torso as steady as possible. "Are you badly hurt?" 

The white mage extended both hands, slowly tugging the one glove free and dropping it to the ground, where Nuis promptly snapped it up in her beak. Wriggling his fingers in a fascinated manner, he poked one of them gingerly into his left ear, withdrawing it to the sight of blood on the tip. He thought it had felt wet, and not just from the cut of the stone's impact. 

"Concussion. Grade one or two, can't really tell yet. Very tired, though. Bruises only, most likely." 

Eril stared, nodding towards his bloodied fingertip. "But . . . the blood? Isn't that worrying?" 

"No." A smile flashed on the white mage's face. "It's good." 

"How can it be good?" 

"There are worse things that can leak out of your skull when something has bashed you around the head." 

"Oh." The red mage frowned, glancing back towards the open door of the house. "Concussion is still dangerous, though. Let's get you inside." 

Kijo released a negative murmur, placing his hands on the floor and propping himself up with a groan. He moved slowly to avoid jolting his nauseated stomach, but managed to sit upright without losing his meagre lunch, his one gloved hand rubbing resentfully at the base of his ribs. 

His steely eyes were drawn to the motionless form of the black mage. There had been, beneath all of his animosity for the morons instigating the brawl, another motive for Kijo to intervene. He was curious about the nature of this mindless golem. For all intents and purposes, it was impossible for it to exist, impossible for another person to bestow even limited life upon a creation. People were, thankfully, not gods. So what made this doll work? 

Still on his hands and knees, Kijo crawled towards it, ignoring a worried query from Eril. It was a bulky, heavy creature, but somehow he managed to haul it into a sitting position, though he was panting with the exertion. 

They were quite a simple design. Every inch of them besides their shadowy face was covered in heavy clothing, mage-like violet robes and white trousers in this particular variety. It was difficult to imagine what lay beneath the attire, and yet Kijo felt that it had to be the same material that the insubstantial face was formed from. No fiery lights were ablaze in this black mage's eyes – a vague sphere of darkness rested beneath the tall wizard hat, and that was all. 

It wasn't just shadow, though. There was _something_ to that darkness; Kijo could feel it as he gazed in. He grabbed the brim of the hat and gave a tug, but it wouldn't come loose. 

"Just leave it alone, Kijo," Eril warned, an undercurrent of fear causing his voice to tremble. "Those things are monstrous, you shouldn't mess –" 

"I just want to know what it's made of," the white mage interrupted quietly. "Don't you?" 

"After last night?" Eril frowned, disgust plain on his face. "Even if it's dead, it's black magic. You shouldn't be messing around with it . . ." 

"But these creatures are an impossibility by everything we've ever been taught about magic. People can't channel black magic. You know that, and I know that. So I want to find out exactly what this thing is." 

Whether driven by his hazy state of mind, or sincere curiosity, Kijo failed to heed the warning even when Eril repeated it. His hand trembling slightly, he pushed it towards the silent golem's shadow of a face and plunged his bare fingers into the dark mass. What he touched was . . . 

_Raw chaos._

A wrenching convulsion ripped its way through Kijo, mimicked by the suddenly spasming black mage. His mind was overloaded with illogic, with dark, choking natural forces that engulfed his identity, compressing it to a tiny, screaming core surrounded by rushing, pure pandemonium. 

It stole his voice and any control, and as both Kijo and the black mage were forcibly thrown apart, his gasping cry was entirely involuntary. Released from the torturous contact with the immense natural force, he was permitted one final conscious thought. 

The black mages didn't just use black magic. 

They _were_ black magic. 

"Kijo!" 

It was like a thunderstorm in his chest, Eril thought, crawling towards the silent white mage. He could practically feel his ribs crunching, and his entire torso was throbbing fit to explode. If he didn't get back to his bed soon, he was going to pass out, and then they'd both be stuck out here rolling around on the pavestones and Faowri would be angry and – 

Eril gritted his teeth, dragging himself along to where Kijo had fallen. The mage was sprawled on his back, for once looking childishly vulnerable as he lay with one hand curled beside his head, his eyes softly shuttered and lips parted in a faint expression of surprise. 

He wasn't moving. Eril cast a nervous glance at the black mage, but the golem was equally as motionless. Swallowing hard against a spasmodic ripple of pain through his ribcage, the red mage crawled further forward and reached for Kijo's shoulder, giving it a firm shake. 

"Kijo? Please, wake up. We need to get back inside . . ." 

The white mage failed to respond, not giving Eril the barest indication that he was even alive. Eril blew out a frustrated breath, about to utter a curse for the role reversal, when a horrifying thought occurred to him. For a long second, he merely stared at the inert healer, trying to will the possibility away, but the apprehension was firmly lodged in his gut and now he couldn't shift it. 

Eril held two fingertips over Kijo's mouth and nose, anxiously awaiting the soft touch of the young man's breath against his skin. When it didn't come, he groaned in panic, switching those same fingers to his throat. A pulse throbbed beneath his fingers, but it was worryingly faint. And Kijo certainly wasn't breathing. 

_Oh, gods . . ._

The chicobo was crying piteously by now, butting at Kijo's side, but her master wasn't shifting. She limped furiously around him, instead attacking Eril's thigh with her fluffy head, imploring him to act. It startled Eril out of his shock and encouraged him to do just that. 

His hands flew to Kijo's head, tipping it backwards. He was no white mage, but there were things he knew he could do for his companion, things that even a red mage was taught in preparation for the worst case scenario. 

And, gods, was this worse than he'd envisioned when he had fallen out of bed and limped his way to the frenzied jeering and shouting. Eril used his good shoulder to ineffectually brush limp strands of white hair from his sweat-blurred eyes as he quickly opened Kijo's mouth, pressing his cheek close to the white mage's to double check for any signs of breathing. 

His hunched position over the young man's body was agonising, cramping his damaged ribcage into an even tighter space. Eril had to pull back to be able to draw in a full enough breath to commence with the resuscitation. He'd never detested a situation as much as this one, and doubted he ever would. First Cera was missing, possibly dead – although he refused to admit that possibility to himself as more than a fleeting concern – and now all hell was breaking loose on the streets of Lindblum. Right now he cared nothing for his responsibilities, involved emotionally and traumatically as a victim of it all; later, would he be able to consider it with calm neutrality as a red mage should? 

Pinching Kijo's nose closed and bending once more to expel his first breath into the white mage's mouth, Eril was unable to divine an answer. 

Kijo's chest rose with the forced air and fell as Eril withdrew, straightening as far as he could to inhale deeply again, his body shuddering with the anticipation of extreme discomfort. He knew it was two breaths, check for pulse again, and then rescue breathing, but he was so dizzy with pain himself that he didn't know how long he'd be able to keep it up . . . 

Second breath. Eril pressed his fingertips against the mage's throat, frustrated by the pulse he felt and its absence of mirrored breathing. Groaning in desperation, he craned over the motionless body and forced another mouthful of air down Kijo's throat, pleading inwardly for results. 

On the third breath he received them. Kijo's back arched against the floor. Eril expected him to come spluttering to life, but, surprisingly, he only curled his fingers into his palms, perceptibly breathing for himself with a soft murmur. As if he were awakening from a nap rather than almost-death. 

Eril sagged back, spreading his hands at the mage's involuntary impertinence. Kijo eventually fluttered his eyes open and rolled them sideways to his rescuer, a look of perplexed surprise fixed on his youthful features. There was still an unhealthy pallor to his skin, a haunted quality lurking behind his steely gaze, and the red mage wondered exactly what had happened. 

Kijo raised a hand to the bloodied side of his head, his eyes rolling with discomfort as he propped himself up on his elbows, absently ignoring Nuisance's affectionate nuzzlings. 

"Did . . . did I just . . ." 

His voice faltered to a stop. Eril lifted his gaze from the ground it had wearily sunk to, bewildered by the sudden silence, but Kijo wasn't looking at him – he was rigidly staring ahead, his eyes wide, panic fixing his mouth in a soundless gape. Concerned by the abrupt change of mood in him, Eril jerked his head about to follow Kijo's line of sight. 

Chilled fear rose like a monolith in his guts, locking his throat against any exclamations or protests. 

The black mage was sitting upright again, like a broken puppet, but now entirely of its own will. Its huge, gloved hands were held out in front of it, thick fingers moving in slow, aimless fascination. 

Eril couldn't see its face. The hat was tipped forward, the abhorrent creature staring at its own palms as if it had never seen them before. But, even as he watched, the heavy brim of that straw accessory was rising, unveiling the dark, shadowy space between its base and the robe's collar – and the twin, blazing discs of fire hiding within. 

A choked gasp of terror ground its way out of his throat, and, pain forgotten, Eril grabbed Kijo's shirt sleeve and jerked him violently away. He lunged towards the staff and its tantalising promise of support. Nuis was screaming at the awakened black mage, a glance over his shoulder confirming that the golem was watching it in motionless silence, its eyes flashing intermittently as it blinked without comprehension at the bundle of yellow feathers. 

Eril had to grit his teeth, tearing his gaze away. His torso felt like it might split asunder, and yet he could only think about how they were both too weak to defend against assault. And he had to stay alive, for Cera! How would he find her if he was dead? 

Kijo was on his own feet by now, groaning and unsteady, but taking his turn to haul Eril along beside him as the red mage's strength failed. The staff was swiftly snatched from the ground, clacking against the paved street as he used it to drag them both towards the half-broken wall outside their house. The pair of them near collapsed behind it, clinging to the crumbling brickwork for support as they stared towards the animated monster. 

There was something . . . different about it, Eril decided, gasping for breath while Nuis gave it a final squealing reprimand, finally turning around to limp after her master and snap up his discarded glove. He kept waiting for its rallying cry of "Kill!", the one that so haunted his memories of last night's trauma . . . but the black mage was barely moving, just staring at its surrounding with single-minded perplexity. 

It shot a look right at Eril, and for a moment, the two of them locked eye contact. The time they spent staring at each other seemed to stretch to an eternity, until the red mage felt he would have to scream to end his fixation on those flaming discs. 

Fortunately, he didn't have to. From the end of the street that led towards the centre of the Business District, Eril heard cries of a military kind, and saw the flash of dull sunlight on armour. The Alexandrian soldiers had returned. 

"Look!" Kijo hissed in his ear, his gloved hand pointing towards the black mage – or at least, the spot where he had been. By the time Eril's eyes had riveted in the direction of his companion's finger, the golem was staggering to it feet, bounding in the opposite direction and . . . 

Running away . . ? 

Towards the Hunter's Gate, no less. Eril caught the sound of startled shouts from the Alexandrian guards stationed there, but they were too distant to fully make out, and the black mage was, by then, completely lost from sight. 

The soldiers strutting their way down the street were still visible _and_ audible, however. Kijo nudged Eril's good shoulder, grasping it in his hand with a gesture that indicated they should make themselves scarce. 

Eril wholeheartedly agreed. 

Somehow, he managed to get back to his bed, with Kijo's aid. There had been a moment in the crumbling hallway when Eril had almost blacked out entirely, so faint and light-headed with pain that merely staying on his feet was more than he could bear. 

From there to his room was mostly a blur, but for now he was aware of lying back on the worn mattress, with Kijo standing over him, struggling to re-assemble his sling in a convincing fashion. The white mage was practically keeling over himself, and looked distinctly unwell. 

"Faowri's shrewd enough to notice," the younger man sighed, wiping weakly at his bloodied temple. "And there's no telling what damage you've re-inflicted upon yourself. You'll have to tell her the truth so she can look you over – I'm not thinking clearly enough to do it myself." 

Eril puffed out an exhalation of his own, rolling his head around on the pillow as Kijo tugged the blanket back over his supine form. "Will you get into trouble?" His voice was slurred with pain, and he quickly stretched out his good arm to take up the remainder of the potion beside his bed. 

Kijo actually laughed at the query, passing the potion bottle to Eril when it proved too far to reach. "She'll have a rant at me, I'm sure. But, I doubt I'll get into any formal trouble." 

The potion went down like acid, but Eril somehow succeeded in swallowing it all. Kijo caught the bottle before it could slip from his fingers. Shutting his eyes, he heard the soft _clack_ of it being replaced on the bench, and of his healer moving away from the bed. 

"Are you going to sleep?" he croaked after him. "Are you supposed to sleep with concussion?" 

"If I spend another moment awake, it'll do more damage," Kijo assured him, hissing a reprimand beneath his breath at the chicobo. 

Eril could only assume she was getting under his feet because he was too tired to open his eyes and check. He thought he'd heard the last from the white mage for the moment, but as his creaking footsteps reached the bedroom door, they stopped. 

" . . . You shouldn't have intervened, Eril. As it is, you might have set back your recovery even further with that stunt." 

"You expected me to stand by and watch?" 

"Yes, quite frankly." 

It was Eril's turn to laugh, though the action was more painful than he dared admit. "I've never met anyone like you before. You certainly don't seem the type to be a white mage." 

"No . . . I'm probably not." 

The wistful edge to his voice caused Eril to force one eye open in surprise. Kijo was narrowing his own pair at the floorboards, leaning his back against the door lintel with one arm curled around his ribs. The red mage lolled his head to the side, frowning at his dismal demeanour. 

"Then why be one?" 

Kijo shrugged his shoulders, reverting to his defensive indifference. "It's a long story. Sometimes it's not easy to find your place in this world." 

Something about his flat tone told Eril that Kijo wasn't prepared for a discussion on the subject. Regardless, a niggling idea pushed against his thoughts, and he opened his second eye to peer curiously at the healer. "What happened when you touched the black mage?" 

Smiling, Kijo turned his tired eyes upon him. "I thought you weren't curious." 

"I am since you somehow resurrected it." 

"A point." The white mage frowned, waving his hand in a gesture of uncertainty. "I don't know. All I know is that the creature _is_ pure, black magic. I was dipping my hand in raw chaos. I suspect the Alexandrians will kill it since it has no further use to them." 

"But how did it wake up in the first place?" 

His brow furrowed in concentration, as though Kijo were still calculating the answer in his own head. "I . . . I'm not entirely sure. There was something else in there, something sentient. I channel white magic extremely well . . . Perhaps it wasn't dead, but asleep, and somehow my white magic helped it to recover." 

Eril frowned uncomfortably. "Nearly killing you in the process." 

"I was only knocked out . . . wasn't I?" 

The mage's discomfort at his patient's soft headshake was blatant. He nervously fingered his high collar. 

"You weren't breathing, Kijo." 

Kijo straightened, inhaling a deep breath and facing Eril directly. The red mage thought the sudden change in posture was dignity-driven. 

"Then, you saved me. My life." 

It was obvious that such a debt wasn't one Kijo wished to harbour, and Eril was far from an insensitive person. He did his best to shrug it off, matching his companion's indifference. 

"I suppose. Don't think anything of it. You would have done the same, I'm sure." 

But the white mage was clearly disconcerted. Eril wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps he simply wasn't used to being the patient. 

Whatever the reason, Kijo turned abruptly around, patting his thigh to summon Nuis along after him. 

"My thanks," he said in a slightly shaken voice, and, abiding by his unspoken wishes, Eril didn't mention it further. "I'm going to rest. You had better, too." 

"You're the white mage," Eril yawned, sinking back against his pillow, but his carer was already out of the door. An odd one was Kijo, especially for his profession. But there were too many thoughts demanding his attention, too many returning concerns about Cera, queries about the fleeing black mage, for his tired mind to focus on. 

Eril brushed them all away and, with little effort, willed himself to sleep. 

When Faowri returned to the house, it was full dark. She abandoned her cloak and hat to the supply crate, her head tilted to catch any stray sound in the silent house. Having expected Kijo to stay up and wait for her before calling it a day, she was surprised to hear nothing, Perhaps he'd been busier than she thought . . . 

Well, at least she came bearing goods. Faowri set the basket on the supply crate, eyeing up the small selection of food she had managed to scrounge from one of the hastily-assembled kitchens she'd passed on her rounds of the injured. Rescue aid of this scale had never been required before, and she was frankly impressed at the efficiency of the unharmed citizens of Lindblum. 

Of course, the Alexandrians did nothing. Faowri scowled, wondering once again what Queen Brahne expected from this stolen city. 

She turned first towards Eril's room, recalling with a surge of apprehension the information she had to give him. Perhaps it would be better to wait until he was well into recovery . . . 

No. They didn't have time, and Eril seemed man enough to take the truth. Nonetheless, Faowri avoided his door, striding instead toward Kijo's chosen room. The portal was open halfway, and she peered inside, staring at the white mage on his makeshift bed. 

One oil lamp burned on a crate he'd made into a bedside table, casting a sickening yellow glow on his unnaturally pale face. He was curled on his side beneath a thin blanket, his knees drawn almost to his chest and the sleeping chicobo nestled in the depression between torso and thigh. 

The slightly bloody bandage fastened around Kijo's head puzzled her. Faowri leaned closer and ran her fingers through his downy mass of soft brown bangs, moving them to his chin when he failed to flicker so much as an eyelid in response. She lightly traced the faint bruise blossoming at his jawline. 

His injuries certainly hadn't been there this morning. Faowri frowned, wondering if it was just excessive usage of magic that had driven him to such a deep sleep. At any rate, he'd be out until morning at least, and she'd probably have to get the full story from Eril. 

Faowri sighed and exited the room after leaving a sizeable ration of food on Kijo's table, not anticipating a comfortable conversation with the pleasant red mage in the other occupied room. She was relieved to find him sleeping, though somewhat restlessly, when she opened his door. Perhaps she wouldn't have to speak to him of her findings until morning . . . 

But, no matter how quietly she tried to enter, Eril's eyes fluttered open the instant she crossed the threshold, fixing directly upon her through the darkness. 

"Wait there," she murmured, struggling to suppress her disappointment at his alertness. Faowri darted back into the corridor, grabbing one of the spare lamps near the supply crate and igniting it with a controlled fire spell. She set it on the table adjacent to the door to keep the light dim on Eril and yet permit her to see well enough to examine him. 

"Ah, Eril," Faowri announced with a cheery whisper as she strode towards him, settling the basket on the bench. "You're looking . . ." 

His sheepish smile at her dismayed gasp was evident even in the gloom. Eril looked a complete mess, his clothing rumpled and his sling twisted at the shoulder, and his appearance left Faowri at a total loss. 

" . . . worse than when I left you!" She wagged an admonitory finger at him, before leaning forward to tug aside the blanket and neaten him up. "I demand to know what happened to put you in this state, and Kijo in his." 

Eril sighed deeply, closing his eyes in resignation, though he offered no resistance to her ministrations, painful as they had to be. "Is he all right?" 

"I've no idea. At the minute he's in an extremely deep sleep. What happened, Eril?" 

The red mage seemed to hesitate, but he gave in with a shrug that was comically lopsided. She thought she saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but it was so fleeting that she decided it was imagined. "There was a brawl outside. You've seen some of the more rebellious citizens, I'm sure. Kijo tried to break it up, but they didn't realise he was a white mage and attacked him, too. I had to go out there and explain why they should stop. I think he's concussed . . ." 

Spoken with a sincere inflection, the tale sounded true enough. And Faowri _had_ seen the Alexandrian soldiers rounding up some rowdy rebels in the main square of the Business District on her way back here. She didn't actually voice her approval, but Eril seemed to take her silence as the same since he promptly changed the subject. 

"What's in the basket?" 

Faowri blinked, and flashed him a slight smile. "A late supper. Hungry?" 

He returned it with a weak one of his own, nodding in satisfaction at the idea. "Starving." 

"Always a healthy sign. I'll give you a hand . . ." 

She'd torn off the third chunk of bread from the loaf and handed it to him to munch on before he asked the inevitable question. Faowri's stomach seemed to plummet through her body, the guilt at being the messenger of such miserable news wearing hard on her nerves. 

"So . . . can I ask if found out anything about Cera?" 

The timid hope and despair in his voice was heart-wrenching. Faowri swallowed, struggling to keep a straight face as she looked Eril directly in his worried amber eyes. 

"I've seen every registered mage in the city, and not one of them is taking care of her. She's not on her feet, that's for sure, or I would have bumped into her along with the other red mages I saw. Before all this, I went to the Industrial District first, but there isn't much of it left," she admitted slowly, and tugged the shattered spectacles from her belt. He dropped the bread and accepted them with one shaking hand, holding the article above him so that its mangled frame and rose-tinted shards caught the lamplight. 

"This is all I've been able to find of her, Eril, and I've looked everywhere." 

The apology in her voice was undeniable, and Eril swallowed hard several times, his Adam's apple convulsing in his throat. Opening his mouth and closing it repeatedly with unasked and unanswerable questions, he flitted his glistening eyes back to her, silently pleading for her reassurance. 

"But, sh – she could, she could still be alive? There's . . . there must be . . . a chance?" 

Faowri quickly conceded that idea, nodding firmly in agreement without breaking eye contact. "Of course. There's always a chance, Eril." Sighing torturously, she leaned forward and closed her hand around the motionless one at his side, urging his full attention from the clear turmoil in his thoughts. "All I'm asking is that you be prepared for the worst, as well as the best. Cera may still be alive . . . but if she is, I haven't been able to find her." 

The significance of her final sentence seemed to take a long time to sink in. Eril blinked at her, turning his head to stare up at the spectacles he still held above him. Faowri was infinitely glad that she had left the lamp near the door – the absence of full light almost hid the moisture she knew was gathering in his eyes. 

"Thank you for trying," he whispered in a broken voice that heightened Faowri's irrational guilt. Suddenly inhaling, he was silent a moment longer before continuing in his rasping tone. "She's not just my partner, you know. She's my best friend. I . . . I don't really know what I might do without her . . ." 

That was as much as Eril could manage. Faowri watched his jaw clench, and heard the wet sound of his throat locking, before a grating rush of grief choked him, and he was forced to squeeze his eyes closed against his tears. 

Faowri tried to think of something reassuring to say, but her mind was blank. She didn't know this woman, and she scarcely knew Eril. Any consolations, condolences, reassurances . . . she knew they'd feel false coming from her. 

But, while she couldn't directly share his grief with him, she could lend him her empathy and comfort him as he endured it. She clutched his hand tightly, glancing away to protect his dignity, and sat in perfect silence; this was his chance to come to terms with what he might already have lost.


	4. Persecution

**4: Persecution   
**

__

"Our necks are under persecution: we labour, and have no rest."   
– The Bible 

Knuckles urgently crunched against wood. The monotonous sound invaded Faowri's sleep, taking the distorted form of familiar, booted footsteps strolling across the front hall, belonging to a person she would always rush down the stairs to meet before he ever had chance to ascend. 

But her eyes flickered open to the dismal sight of a sagging ceiling and splintered floorboards, and she realised she wasn't at home. Faowri rolled onto her side beneath her cloak, yesterday's chaos trickling back into her head as she clutched it around her and tried to tuck her bare feet under the warm material. Every part of her tired mind and aching body resented the rude awakening, protesting that she'd only just climbed into bed, for the love of the gods! 

She tried to ignore the persistent knocking, but it wouldn't go away. Faowri puffed out a gusty sigh, blindly fumbling over the edge of her makeshift bed for the pocket watch, and flinching back with a disorientated gasp as her fingers touched cold liquid. Squinting at the ceiling confirmed it; the heavens had opened, and her room, of all rooms, had a leak. 

With an infuriated exhalation, Faowri rolled to her hands and knees, briefly entangled in her cloak as she struggled to rise. Post-waking grumpiness aside, if the visitor continued to knock that way, they'd wake her companions, who seemed to need their sleep more than she did. The pervasive reek of sodden wood and creeping damp caused her to shudder, and Faowri filed a mental note to change rooms as soon as she was given half a chance; a cold or cough right now wouldn't do anyone any favours. 

The answer to why the dripping of the leak hadn't awakened her already was in her damp hat – she'd left it under the vicinity of the ceiling crack and had to tip a small reservoir of water out of its curled brim before she could place it in its usual fashion on her head. Immediately, the dull, soft thud of the perpetual drip striking the floorboards resounded in her room. Bloody weather . . . 

And the drumming of the rain was even heavier in the corridor – it sounded like quite the downpour. She'd have to check for more leaks in Kijo and Eril's rooms . . . 

Faowri padded down the hallway, clutching the cloak about her in a vague attempt at retaining some dignity before realising that she didn't actually care that much. Her hair was tousled, her lack of sleep was no doubt visible on her face, her clothes were creased from sleeping in them, and her thick, "industrial" red mage-uniform tights were laddered. Laddered! But, nonetheless, all she did was smooth her skirt down, before giving the door a tremendous yank to free it from its damp-induced immobility. 

The street beyond was infinitely grey, blurred by the sheeting, blackened rain falling from clouds sick with the smoke of the city's near-destruction. Her coat-enshrouded visitor didn't wait for an invitation and promptly darted past her into the hallway to escape a continual drenching. 

"There's enough rain to rival Burmecia out there," he muttered, scraping back his hood to reveal the boyish, mischievous face of Justin. Faowri arched an eyebrow, pushing the door closed behind him as he made a show of shaking out his sopping hair, wet despite his hood. 

If the youth had come to try and rally her onto his 'rebellion', Faowri would stand none of it. She'd given him a once over already for a punch to the jaw he'd received yesterday – punishment for bad-mouthing an Alexandrian guard . . . to her face. While his gall was commendable, it certainly wasn't indicative of his intelligence. 

She snapped a finger to attention before he could fully open his mouth. 

"This had better not be about your 'Vigilantes' resistance, Justin. Now is not the time for a rebellion, or for waking me up when I've had a scant few hours' sleep. Whatever it is, keep your voice down, please. I've a patient in the next room." 

Justin's brown eyes rolled at the premature admonishment. Faowri expected he'd been a rebel at heart even before the invasion. 

"I actually came to give you a friendly piece of advice, you know." 

"Oh? And what" – the red mage interrupted herself with a yawn – "might that advice be?" 

The young man leaned invasively close, wagging a finger in a mockery of her previous berating. "You and the other red mage you have here need to watch your backs, very closely." 

Faowri stared at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How did you know I had a red mage as a patient?" 

"I asked another red mage. Who consequently asked me to pass this message on to you, Faowri. And I did it even in this downpour!" Justin tilted his head, glaring fiercely at the door as though he could see beyond it into the devastated street. "When we get Lindblum back . . ." 

He was going to go off on another of his freedom speech tangents, Faowri thought with an inward groan, leaning forward to commandingly touch his shoulder and regretting it when her gloveless hand came back soaking wet. She rubbed it against her skirt as he blinked at her. 

"Stay on track, Justin. What is this message? Why should Eril and I watch our backs?" 

The youth shrugged, a frown twisting his mouth and his gaze wandering back to the door with seemingly unfounded suspicion. "Apparently red mages have been going missing in Lindblum since yesterday. Have you met with many of your friends?" 

A twinge of anxiety pinched Faowri's belly, and she clasped the heel of her wet palm to her temple, kneading it against the incoherence of her thoughts. She really needed more sleep before she tackled a problem like this . . . but, even though tiredness dogged her memory, the unmistakeable shortage of her colleagues had been an undercurrent to her concerns throughout the day. Mostly when she'd been trying to find help . . . 

"It was Sheridan who told me," Justin continued, regarding her intently. "He said that you aren't safe anymore, and that other mages he's convened with since the beginning of this can no longer be found. He wants to meet with you soon, with as many others as he can find. I have to take a message back." 

"Sheridan?" An extremely serious red mage, Sheridan nonetheless wouldn't cry a warning like this without good reason. Those guards she'd bumped into on the way back from the Industrial District yesterday . . . they'd mentioned their prejudice against red mages. Faowri thought it was entirely likely that the Alexandrian army wouldn't appreciate black-magic capable opposition, even if they _weren't_ opposition or hadn't thrown any fire yet! 

Another yawn squeezed its way from Faowri's throat, and she moved a hand apologetically over her mouth. "Sheridan will know what he's talking about. You'll have to tell him that we should meet here. Eril can't be moved, but he should still be in on this. It's his right to know, as well as ours'." 

Justin nodded, peering down the hallway and noting the number of doors embedded in each wall. "This place seems bigger than where Sheridan is, anyway. And the folk here are more submissive than down the other end of this district." His sneer conveyed his disdain for such an attitude. "After yesterday's incident, I've noticed the Alexandrians have found this street pretty quiet. It shouldn't be too hard for them to make their way here." 

"You really think the Alexandrians would do us harm?" Faowri couldn't quite swallow that, for all their misdeeds. Mages had always been under the protection their profession afforded them, because any ill behaviour was dealt with inside the respective Order. 

"Maybe. Maybe not." Justin shrugged, rubbing a hand against his pale cheek. "Sheridan only said that he'd been asked for urgently by a few white mages. Apparently they've seen their supporting red mages carted away. Perhaps that's all they're doing, but . . . not really worth the risk of finding out, is it?" 

Faowri teased her fingers through the limp white strands framing her face, coiling them around a digit. "It's a bit hard to hide in this place right now, Justin. The places we're posted in might not be recorded, but the white mages we're likely to be supporting will be simple enough to locate." 

"Why not ditch the uniforms, then?" 

He was awarded with a glare so fierce that he might as well have asked for a sexual favour. 

"Just a suggestion, Faowri . . ." 

"You'll not find a red mage cowardly enough to get out of his or her uniform," she berated, the wagging finger returning to its favoured position close to his nose. "We've done nothing wrong, and so we will not hide. You should head back, then, and tell Sheridan to meet here." 

Justin rolled his eyes, slinking back towards the door with a long-suffering sigh as he dragged his hood back over his head. "What time?" 

Her eyes casting back down the corridor before returning to him, Faowri ran her tongue over her lips. "Tell them, noon." 

"Noon? It'd probably be easier to get here when it's dark –" 

"If things are as bad as Sheridan must think for him to call this meeting at all, Justin," Faowri murmured solemnly, "we might not have that long." 

The rain was dismal. 

Heavy and monotonous, it seemed to cushion the room against the outside, enveloping him in a muffled, muted cage. Eril would have appreciated it, but he was too apathetic to care. 

Nothing but emptiness had followed his grief-stricken outburst the previous night. Eril endured the pervasive ache of muscle and bone in gutted silence, relying entirely on his carers' ministrations for support, as he felt no motivation to help himself. 

There was little point in living, he'd already decided, if Cera was not around to share the experience with him. Faowri was right; what chance was there that she'd survived if no one could find her? She was probably crushed beneath the debris of the Industrial District, or smouldering in one of the many funeral pyres that had been erected since yesterday . . . 

No. No, that wasn't right. Eril had survived . . . and he had nothing to lose by believing in her safety. What if she could feel that he'd given up somehow? What if that very surrender killed her? 

He'd never be able to stand the guilt. He didn't care what the chances were – she had to be alive! Wouldn't he know if she'd died? They were close enough, intrinsically bonded, that he'd surely know! 

For the first time that morning, Eril stirred, fingering the cold, twisted metal that hadn't moved from his hands since Faowri had given the spectacles to him. The rose-coloured lenses, fractured though they were, seemed the only objects in the room to remain untainted by its empty greyness. 

Eril clutched the source of colour tightly to his stomach, squeezing his eyes closed and shutting his senses off from the rippling thuds of rain above and the metallic drumming of water into containers Faowri had placed under ceiling leaks. He needed to think, _properly_. 

Cera couldn't be dead. Or at least, she could be, but he didn't think so. He simply couldn't believe that. What would he do if she was? Red mages rarely worked alone, but he wouldn't be able to cope with a different partner, a _replacement_. He'd simply have to work alone. 

But if Alexandria . . . 

Beyond the renewed ache of potential loss in his guts, Eril realised just how much hated Alexandria. It was his home, and yet as of this very moment, he disowned it. How could he ever ally himself with its selfish, greedy queen? An army willing to support the slaughter of countless innocent citizens, simply out of loyalty? As much as he thought about it, he could not get his head around the sheer volume of immorality that had been practised in Alexandria, as though its magnitude formed a moral vacuum so alien that his mind couldn't penetrate it. Eril couldn't comprehend the motive, or the _reality_ of it all; he only knew that he condemned it. 

That raw, simmering hatred, born in a moment of clear understanding of his own moral values, went against everything he practised as a red mage. Two sides to everything, fence-sitting, always prepared to hear argument and counter-argument and present unbiased aid . . . 

What 'other side' was there to Alexandria? Where was the fence to sit upon when the battlefield consisted only of villains and victims? What possible counter-argument could there be against the condemnation of a merciless, needless invasion? 

Whether hidden or gone entirely, Eril knew that his neutral mindset, the one he had used to help settle innumerable arguments in the past, was presently unreachable. And if he couldn't find it, there was little point in being a red mage anymore. He'd lost everything – Cera, talent, career, any faith he'd ever had in the simple but bold idea that justice would prevail. 

Surely it was impossible for so much to disappear! The mage drew back the twisted frame spokes of the glasses, testing the fragility of the lens shards before gingerly sliding them over his own eyes. He had a narrower head than Cera, but the metal was so warped it hardly mattered, and where the lenses had not broken, his grey room was abruptly consumed by a pinkish tint. 

Wasn't there an idiom about rose-coloured glasses? Optimists were said to wear them constantly, and Eril was aware of the scorn directed at such people in these cynical times. Cera had b . . . was _still_ an optimist, but she wasn't naïve or in denial; she never pretended things were going to be all right. Instead, she took downfalls in her stride, optimistically filing them under experience rather than disaster. Certainly, her bright attitude towards potential ends had given him so much strength when they had worked together . . . 

Eril tore the spectacles from his face. Before another wave of grief could wear away at his mental endurance, the door of his room creaked open to reveal a pale-faced Kijo, casting expressionless eyes over him in the moment it took edge into the space beyond. 

"Good morning. I thought you might be awake by now." 

The curt greeting came as no surprise, and as unenthusiastic as it sounded, Eril was grateful for the intrusion. He was thinking too much since Faowri's announcement, and it would only make him worse. 

"Are you feeling any better?" 

Kijo spoke the question boredly, as though aware how meaningless it was but compelled by duty to use it. The red mage responded with a brief shake of his head, rolling his tired gaze upon his companion. 

"Are you?" 

"Considering that Faowri just bit my head off for careless behaviour, not too bad." Quirking his mouth into a restrained smile, he pressed his gloved hand to the clean bandage at his temple, demonstrating that it wasn't as terrible a wound as it might have appeared. "I'm just lucky she was half asleep when she decided to tell me off." 

"Where is she?" 

"Sleeping, still." Kijo shrugged, habitually weaving left and right as he walked to avoid stepping on Nuisance, who bobbed between his feet. "She seems to need the rest, but she did say we'd have visitors, so I'll have to rouse her soon." 

Blinking in surprise, Eril's eyes avidly followed the white mage as he sank to the bench with a sigh, drawing up the hood of his shawl to cushion his head against the wall. 

"Visitors?" 

"Hmm. The remaining red mages, or so I could gather from her hurried and drowsy explanation." 

"Explanation of _what_?" 

Kijo shot a disgusted look at Eril for his incomprehension, which faded at the mage's clear bewilderment. "She hasn't told you yet?" 

"Told me _what_?" 

One eyebrow arched, Kijo massaged his temple with one hand and Nuis' invasive head with the other as he spoke. "That the Alexandrian soldiers seem to be 'removing' red mages from Lindblum as some kind of perceived threat. The remainder of your colleagues will be meeting here to discuss a plan of action." 

"Removing?" Eril gasped out the word in shock, wriggling his shoulders in an attempt to drag himself to attention. 

"Not killing, of course." Waving that idea aside, the white mage wrinkled his nose. "That would be too obvious, and Queen Brahne wouldn't want every red mage on the continent after her head. No, they've just been taken away. Where to, I don't know, and wouldn't like to guess –" 

"_When did this start happening_?" 

Eril had risen up against the bed head, his eyes wide and glistening at a startled Kijo. 

"I . . . I don't know. I presume yesterday –" 

"Then it could have started before Faowri had chance to look all over Lindblum, right?" 

Folding his arms, Kijo fixed Eril with a frown. "You're thinking of your friend? You think she was taken?" 

Eril nodded furiously, ignoring the pain his frenzied movements caused. "Why not? Faowri couldn't find her anywhere; perhaps Cera had been 'removed' before Faowri had chance to find her! More so, if she'd been in the care of red mages and they were taken too, no one would have known about her –" 

"Don't . . . you don't know that for sure, Eril." Kijo rose from his seat, shaking his head uncertainly at the enthused red mage. "Don't get your hopes up too far. They'll only have further to fall if you're disappointed." 

He knew Kijo was right, but Eril tried not to consider that he might be disappointed. The news, however potentially risky for himself and his remaining colleagues, lent more support to the possibility that Cera might be alive. Just like her, too, to be the optimistic slant on ultimately pessimistic news. 

"By the way . . ." Kijo paused at the door, casting a concerned glance back at his patient and lowering his voice to a bare whisper. "No sign of that black mage yet. I'm keeping one ear open for it." 

Eril had almost forgotten about the renegade puppet, so consumed by his own worries, but he nodded with some relief. "I hope it stays that way. Let me know if it changes." 

"I'll do that." 

The white mage's exit was marked by his fluttering, chirruping chicobo, taking with her the last of the noise in the room. Filled with fresh optimism, Eril sank back into his bed covers, eyes closing in the additional hope of some restful sleep. 

One thought kept him momentarily awake before it was suffused by dreams – even if Cera had been taken, her safety still depended upon the mercy of Alexandria. 

"Sheridan!" 

Professional courtesy flying out of the metaphorical window, Faowri couldn't help but meet her old mentor with a relieved embrace. The stoic man stiffly returned it, but his appreciation of her affection was evident in the lightening of his deep-set russet eyes. 

"Glad to see you made it safely," she grinned, quickly stepping back to permit him and his horde through into the corridor. 

"Glad to see you're still here, Faowri," he countered with a nod, gesturing back towards the red mages who quickly escaped broad daylight. She counted only six, all wearing extra cloaks to defend against the rain and simultaneously aid their subterfuge, and failed to suppress her disappointment at such a low turnout, even though it would probably allow them some room to breathe in the already small house. 

Sheridan, sharp as ever, noted her frown and touched a reassuring hand to her shoulder, casting a suspicious glance back out into the rain before drawing the door closed behind the group. With the oppressive hammering of the rain subdued by the barrier, the depressing drip of water into her makeshift leak-catchers became prominent in the sudden muted hush. 

"Eril's in there, along with our white mage" Faowri directed abruptly, pointing towards the appropriate door. "There should be enough room for us all, just about, if you don't mind being packed in like sardines." 

"You're with a white mage?" an older female mage asked, her small eyes widening atop her long nose as she peered down it Faowri. "Didn't Sheridan tell you it's most dangerous to be with a registered white mage right now?" 

"I figured that out for myself, thank you, but Eril is ill and, as he's a red mage, it's dangerous to leave him." The briefest of glances was cast back at Sheridan, but Faowri's words were forceful regardless of the barely-discernible request for confirmation. "Whatever we decide to do includes him as well." 

A fidgeting young woman, clearly a new mage with her hair only tinged by telltale white, tugged nervously at the fingers of her gloves. "How badly hurt is he?" 

Faowri could see that she wanted to dispute Eril joining their plans if he might be a burden, and opened her mouth to snap a condemnation, but as ever, Sheridan beat her to it with a much calmer version of the same reprimand. 

"We cannot abandon our own, _now_, when we are in such danger. Come," he concluded, waving a long-fingered hand towards the appropriate door. "We must discuss this matter in depth." 

Holding any further queries for now, the red mages filed with dismayed mutterings about size into Eril's room. Faowri listened to a few good-natured queries about her patient's health – she'd propped him up against the bed head before opening the door to her 'guests', comfortably surrounded by pillows and more dignity than lying like an invalid would grant him, and conveniently making room for more to be seated at the bed's end. 

But she caught Sheridan's arm before she entered herself. 

"Why so few?" Faowri whispered urgently, blue eyes evenly meeting her past mentor's. "Are they all that could be found?" 

Sheridan nodded glumly, gesturing for her to enter. "I'll explain once we're comfortable." 

Devastated by such a low number, she hung and shook her head even as she followed his advice. "I don't think we have time to get comfortable . . ." 

Squeezing in against the low cabinet and almost overturning its basket of medicinal supplies in the process, Faowri settled with a sigh, sucking in her belly to permit Sheridan to close the door. The room was indeed a tight squeeze, but sufficient for a short meeting – and Faowri didn't think they could risk a longer one. 

Sheridan glanced his acknowledgement at Eril and Kijo, who had settled on the bed beside the red mage and was now trapped between two of them. Her patient, Faowri noticed, didn't seem ready to participate in this discussion, but his eyes were clear and wide, eagerly awaiting results. This news had probably given him more hope concerning Cera, which she prayed wasn't misplaced. 

"I'll begin," Sheridan said in his deep, rich voice, interrupting her from irrelevant thoughts, "with what I know. White mages have seen Alexandrian soldiers arresting and removing red mages to an unknown location. Their motive appears to be that they perceive us as a threat of some kind, with our practise of black magic." 

"But removed to where?" 

The desperate query came from a male mage who looked about Faowri's age, his dragoon's fur a dark brown and an odd contrast to his short mass of pale hair. She knew him as Davin and had passed him a weak smile as she'd settled, recognising his dark features in the room's lamplight. Unusual enough for the few Burmecians included in their Order to persist in their red mage duties in these times, Faowri thought. It wasn't the fact that they were generally less adept as a race at managing the teetering counter-forces of black and white magic than humans; there were obvious exceptions, like Davin, who proved their worth at the skill. But Burmecians currently harboured excess pride and resentment over their recent tragedies. The bias was considered inappropriate for the Red Order, and indeed, many of the species had 'taken leave', and been granted it without question. Clearly, it had been all hands on deck when Lindblum had been attacked, regardless of political stance. 

Sheridan frowned uncertainly in reply, offering a shrug as an answer. 

"Our informant has told us that a lot of Alexandrian airships have been coming and going. They've occupied those sections of Lindblum, as you know. Since our comrades are nowhere in the city, and are unlikely to be held in the castle itself, I suspect they're no longer in Lindblum." 

"Taken back to Alexandria, perhaps?" a younger, roguish man leaning languidly against the wall asked with a rolling shrug. 

Sheridan conceded with a frown. "Perhaps, Fersan, but we can't be sure. Or for what purpose they'd be taken, though the gods know they have enough prison-space there to cater for both Orders in their entirety. I managed to send a message by moogle earlier to the head of the Order, but we can't wait on his response. We have to make a move now. I think it would be best if we fled. . ." 

"And how, exactly," the skinniest mage of the lot demanded, his twig-like limbs waving in disgust, "can we do that? The gates are all guarded, and the airships are off-limits. I barely made it _here_ without being caught by those bloody guards. I think we should stay in Lindblum and lay low –" 

The short man beside him jabbed an elbow into his bony ribs, complimenting it with a look that suggested his insanity. "I'm not staying in this place. You can stay if you want, Machel, but I'm getting out of here with my neck intact, thank you very much." 

Machel scowled, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders. "Ridiculous. Genner, the resistance is growing, this situation probably won't last all that long and I have it on good faith that Regent Cid has already put plans into motion regarding Alexandria!" 

"Resistance?" Faowri found herself laughing aloud, shaking her head in the disgruntled mage's direction. "If you mean Justin's little band of teenage rebels, I think you'll find the wait will be a long one before they get anywhere. And the only direction they're going anyway is one that will get them all killed." 

"Faowri . . ." Sheridan mumbled in low warning, clearly recognising her scornful tone. She rolled her eyes in exasperation. 

"I'm sorry, Sheridan, but you are completely right. I don't know how, either, but the only place we're going if we stay here, is wherever those other mages have been carted off to. And I _don't_ fancy joining them." 

"The lady speaks sense, Machel," Fersan, the most relaxed member of their group laughed, "so shut up and listen, would you? I'll bet Sheridan has something up his sleeve." 

Faowri recognised that indolent drawl as belonging to the middle classes of Treno, and shot the man a surprised look. He was directing a wink at her in the same moment and she unaccountably blushed, diverting her gaze before she had chance to study him in full. Inappropriate timing, indeed! 

"I don't know how," she persisted, "but I certainly know where. We can go back to Treno. I'm dying to see if Brahne's got her greedy sights set on it next, but somehow I doubt it. It's hardly a unified national threat like Lindblum, Burmecia and Cleyra could have been." 

"But what about the other red mages?" Eril piped up from the bed, fingering anxiously at the edge of his blanket. "How are we going to help them?" 

"We'll decide that when we're safe ourselves," Sheridan told him, firmly but reassuringly. He was perceptive enough to realise that Eril was sensitive on the issue right now. "And I think Faowri's idea is a good one." 

From his heavy belt pouch, the man drew a damp, tattered parchment, unfolding it with due care in case the water tore its fabric further. It opened out into a water-streaked map of the Mist Continent, and he held it against his chest as he pointed to Lindblum in south-western corner. 

"Treno's quite a distance, but if we set a fast pace we can make it in a day, a day and a half. We'll cross the Eunorus Plains," and his finger traced a path across the deep valley between Lindblum and the mountain range north of it, "and head to South Gate. From there we can ride the cable car up to the Treno trail. Sound plausible?" 

Machel snorted. "Yes, if you forget to count the heavily-guarded Hunter's Gate, or the sheer cliff wall we'd have to scale down to reach the Eunorus Plains once we were through that. Not a good idea to spend so much time travelling through thick Mist, either . . ." 

"Gawds, do you ever gripe!" Fersan hissed beneath his breath, falling short of another insult at Sheridan's warning glance. 

"I can't do much for the last complaint, but the first two are solved." The older mage skilfully rolled up his map, directing a small smile at the group. "We're not leaving through Hunter's Gate. We're leaving through Dragon's Gate." 

Even Fersan had an appreciative whistle for the magnitude of that undertaking. 

"Justin and his teenage rebels, as you so aptly called them, Faowri, are more competent than they seem and plenty eager to help us in this dire situation." 

Faowri raised an uncertain eyebrow at that announcement, but listened with due respect for Sheridan's intelligence as he continued. 

"Justin has a close friend in the Alexandrian army whom he has persuaded to help us. She's arranged it so that she'll be manning the air cabs this evening, and that means we'll be able to reach Lindblum Castle." Sheridan paused, holding up his hand to command full attention. "Once we're in there, Regent Cid will help us get down to Dragon's Gate." 

The old female mage cleared her throat loudly. "You mean to say he knows what's going on? That he's in on this grand escape plan of yours?" 

Nodding, Sheridan relaxed slightly against the door. "That's correct. I've been contacting him since this morning via moogle mail. Everything will be arranged by this evening. He said that the harbour is bustling, manned by Alexandrians soldiers, but they've neglected Dragon's Gate in their industry. I'm not guaranteeing it will be easy, but it _is_ possible. Under cover of night, _probable_." 

Faowri had been decided the moment Sheridan had announced a plan – he knew what he was doing. He'd been the one to teach her to know what _she_ was doing, and she had absolute faith in him. In the following silence, she listened and observed the other mages' reactions, watching the mixture of hope and despair on each face. 

"The plan has my vote," she said when no one volunteered a response, raising her hand. Eril immediately followed suit, encouraged by her firm approval, and Fersan and Davin waved in agreement only seconds later. Genner, the budding escapee, offered his support simultaneously with the two female mages'. It was only disgruntled Machel, who muttered a few despairing curses under his breath, to leave them waiting longer. Perhaps it was peer pressure, but he eventually caved in, reluctantly raising his hand like everyone else. 

"You must consider, Machel," Sheridan said in support, "that there isn't much of an alternative. I'm surprised we've evaded them so far. We won't last much longer in Lindblum." 

"Then there are nine of us," Faowri interrupted the unnecessary reassurance with just the right touch of scorn, crushing Machel's low complaints. "Quite a large number, I suppose." 

Her gaze fell upon Kijo, sitting between Eril and Davin with a snoozing chicobo nestled in his lap. He locked eye contact with her evenly, blinking before abruptly announcing in a no-nonsense tone of voice: 

"I'm coming with you." 

"You're needed here, man," Sheridan frowned, immediately dismissing the idea. 

"No, you need me more than Lindblum does." Kijo ruffled Nuisance's forehead feathers, never shifting his gaze from Sheridan. "With a witness from the White Order, you'll be able to approach Queen Brahne to make an official complaint, on behalf of both heads of the Orders. It would have more bearing than a single Order gripe." 

"Gripe!" Machel spat, half-lunging at Kijo for his insensitivity. "Our Order is being grossly mistreated –" 

"If you don't approach Brahne with as much authority as possible, she will treat it as a gripe, I assure you. Have you somehow missed her display of arrogance so far?" 

Machel retreated, throwing a protesting look in Sheridan's direction, but the older mage was rubbing his chin in serious consideration of the idea. Slowly, he began to nod his head. 

"Very well, white mage. It's a fair proposition, though I hesitate to guess at any other motive you might possess . . ." He turned back to the red mage majority of the gathering, raising his thick eyebrows in concern. "Following this meeting we _must_ split into smaller groups. I will get further plans to you, probably lend Justin and his companions again as messenger boys, but we cannot stay together like this. We won't meet again until I give the order. Is that understood?" 

"Ten, then," Fersan announced in a cheerful voice as the others nodded assent. "Nice, round number to start with. And round numbers are always a good omen." 


	5. Exodus Part 1

**5: Exodus  
Part 1  
**

"It is better to die on your feet than live on your knees."  
– Dolores Ibarruri

"I'm telling you, they're up to something."

Beneath the polished iron that shielded her eyes, the Alexandrian soldier arched a mocking eyebrow in her superior's direction as she sipped at her coffee, and was promptly rewarded with a thump from the flat edge of the woman's sword.

"Don't you give me funny looks like that, Private Wedge. _Someone_ is up to something. I _know_ suspicious behaviour when I see it."

Wisely deciding not to offer an opinion on that claim, Wedge shuddered, blowing on her drink as she leaned against the cold marble. Alexandrian uniforms were not all that warm anyway, little more than a metal leotard and a few leather frills, and Lindblum Castle might be warmer than outside, but the airship bay they were standing by was not. The cold, damp chill of the rain-sodden air had seeped into the guest lounge.

Sparing a moment to rub her cold thighs, Wedge noted the pale blue tinge to her skin and tutted her disgust. When they got back to Alexandria, she was _so_ organising a petition for new uniforms. Were leather trousers that much to ask for?

She kept leaning forward from the open doorway to peer longingly at the comfy-looking couch nestled away beside the staircase. Oh, what she wouldn't do for a five minute nap. Or a dressing gown. Godsdammit, she was too small and skinny to be wearing a metal dominatrix outfit. It dug into all the wrong places.

First Lieutenant Biggs, pacing back and forth in front of the doorway between Wedge and its other post, had always proclaimed that the uniform grew more comfortable with age. Wedge suspected that the poor metal had little option except to warp to fit her superior's more . . . more _curvaceous_ frame.

Well, whatever Biggs wanted to believe was fine by her. Quite frankly, as soon as Wedge could get home and prise the metal out from between her arse cheeks, she'd be a happy woman.

"There, look!"

The larger woman's heavy gauntlets closed around Wedge's forearm, jerking her to attention, and her coffee simultaneously all over the rich crimson carpet at their feet. Wedge regarded the spillage with dismay, thin lips pursed at the abrupt destruction of her restorative drink. No caffeine meant no endurance against First Lieutenant Biggs.

"Thanks for that, ma'am."

"Did you look at all?"

Wedge peered up into Biggs' ruddy, disgusted face, suddenly aware that her unconcerned attitude towards the woman's shrill orders was not going to be overlooked today. Ever since she'd failed to stop those two rebelling Lindblum soldiers locking themselves in the guestroom, Biggs had been after her head.

She faintly shook it as though afraid fervent movement would prompt her superior to genuinely remove it, mumbling something to the effect that she'd been distracted by flying beverage – which coincidentally had soaked through her leather boots, but her scalded toes would probably be fine once the swelling had subsided, thanks for asking.

Biggs clucked her disapproval, waving her perpetually-drawn sword threateningly at her arrogant subordinate. "This is why you'll never exceed your current rank, Private. You're just not keeping your eyes open. Hmph! But don't worry; there's a place in life for all of Gaia's creatures, and even the lowly ranks have to be filled with _someone_. This is probably just your lifelong purpose, and there's no need to be ashamed of it. You're good at it! And I can honestly say I don't give out such compliments to everyone. Feel privileged!"

Firmly biting her tongue, Wedge glared down at the few remaining dark drops in her mug, and miserably tipped them over the dark stain on the floor. When making a mess, it was best to be thorough.

"So, what exactly was it that cost me my coffee?"

Biggs' thrust her sword and one solid hip dramatically towards the top of the stairs, where the doorway to the guest room was just about visible from their position. "Some foul play, is what it is. They've been at it all day. I've been _watching_ 'em."

"Who?"

Her rock-like fist planted firmly on her hip, the woman smirked down at her subordinate, wagging the sword in mocking reprimand. "We'll just see if you can be observant enough to answer your own question, now, won't we? Watch the top of the stairs. They'll be back soon enough."

Though Wedge was resentful of Biggs' usual condescending tone, she found herself surprisingly curious about what had roused the rigid woman's attention. As guileless as she was, she wasn't a stupid officer to work beneath.

For the first ten minutes of standing there, enduring Biggs' occasional smug chuckles, she nonetheless began to wonder if the First Lieutenant had finally (or at least completely) lost it. But, sure enough, the wait wasn't too long before a white flicker dragged her waning attention in full to the upper landing, accompanied by the subtle, careful scuttling of tiny paws.

The moogle came fully into view as it stealthily approached the door to the guest room on three of its stubby limbs, the fourth gripping a small leather bag over its shoulder. Its insignificant violet wings ruffled in time with its brisk pace and there was no mistaking the shifty look its squinty eyes shot back in the direction it had come from. It didn't glance down at the two Alexandrian soldiers, but both Biggs and Wedge automatically assumed an ignorant stance, just in case.

As soon as the door had silently closed behind the suspicious creature, Wedge raised an eyebrow at the first Lieutenant, folding her arms firmly against her chest.

"What was that about?"

"Didn't I tell you, hmm?"

The Private snorted, offering a shrug in response. "It might have seemed odd, but it was just a moogle, ma'am."

"And what do moogles carry, Private Wedge?"

Wedge wrinkled her nose. "Diseases, probably. Little furry rats with wings –"

Unimpressed, Biggs interrupted her tirade with another loud sword-blow to the helmet. "Mail, you idiot! Have you never heard of mognet?"

"We can hardly stop the delivery of mail, ma'am," Wedge replied, gripping the edges of her helm in an attempt to free it from her head.

"On the contrary, orders are to investigate all suspicious behaviour, of any race."

Grumbling, Wedge stifled a pained gasp as the metal loosened its grip on her head. It wasn't like the orders were even coming from General Beatrix anymore . . . and she only trusted Beatrix!

"Whose orders?"

Biggs seemed equally disturbed by the lack of the General's involvement with Lindblum. The troops had heard nothing from her since she'd authorised the attack on Lindblum.

"Major Harmone's signature's on every paper I've had."

Both soldiers sneered in disgust – Harmone was not particularly well liked in any of the ranks, a spineless brown-noser to Beatrix at her best. But, orders were orders. And while Wedge thought moogles were a waste of time, they were hardly doing anything important anyway. She supposed it wouldn't hurt to check.

"What do you propose?"

The metallic creak of door hinges interrupted her, and both soldiers once more looked disinterested, gazing into space, as the same moogle darted from the guestroom and scurried towards the castle entrance hall. Wedge gave a slight shrug.

"Looks like we missed him."

"Not likely. I've seen two of 'em. That one was just passing the message on." Biggs made an ungraceful leap to the stairs, plodding up them at her usual determined pace. "C'mon, I know exactly what to do!"

Sighing, but nonetheless following, Wedge obeyed. And when the second moogle pushed the door open a few inches, peered out, saw nobody, and scrambled out onto the landing, it let out a screech as it collided with the two Alexandrian soldiers waiting knowingly behind the door's blind side.

The largest of the pair snatched up the creature by its mailbag, and it furiously waved its stubby arms and legs while dangling from the leather straps, wailing an incoherent stream of panic.

"And just where might you be off to, little'un?" Biggs demanded, her face suffused with blood and only increasing her intimidating appearance.

"N-nowhere special, kupo!"

Grabbing the moogle by the scruff of its neck, Wedge deftly separated it from the mail bag and held it up to face her superior, who promptly wagged the leather satchel at its protuberant red nose.

"Delivering mail, hmm? I wonder who to!"

"That mail is private property, kupo!"

Biggs delved a hand into the bag's depths, retrieving a thick fistful of letters, and promptly began to flick through them. Most appeared to be trivial personal letters, probably sent between relatives and acquaintances separated by the conflict in Lindblum. But there was one that caused the First Lieutenant to linger – an unsigned envelope, seemingly re-used several times by its scruffy appearance, with a now broken but obviously unmarked wax seal. Why would someone use a seal that didn't identify the sender?

If they didn't want the sender to be known, of course.

Biggs snorted, and removed the contents of the ragged envelope, flicking the parchment open in one hand despite high-pitched protests from the imprisoned moogle.

"What is it?" Wedge inquired, completely entranced by the creature's bobbing pom-pom.

Frowning, Biggs shook her head, squinting at the indefinable words on the page. "I don't know. Looks like some kind of shorthand." She abruptly shot a fierce look at the moogle, her head jerking forward with indignation. "You! What is this?"

"N-nothing, kupo!"

"This is a secret code, isn't it? Between rebels! You're aiding and abetting criminal conspiracy against the Alexandrian empire!"

The moogle's stance switched from defensive to shifty, and it glanced meekly at the carpet in a sudden change of heart. "Uhh . . . Mognet claims no responsibility for the contents of mail, kupo . . ."

"Hah! Hah hah!" Biggs thwapped the letter in its face, her absurd behaviour causing Wedge to cringe with embarrassment. "We'll just see about that! Private Wedge, arrest this moogle!"

"A-arrest? But, it's just a moo-" Wedge blurted out, startled, but quickly raised an armoured forearm to defend against Biggs' infuriated blow before it had chance to materialise. "Uh, yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am."

"We'll take this to someone who'll know how to read it," Biggs was muttering, pivoting on her boot heel and strutting, enthused by her victory, towards the castle entrance. Wedge gave the seething moogle an apologetic shrug, before clasping both hands firmly around its plump waist and turning to follow.

**ooo**

The inoffensive beauty of the tranquil Lindblum Inn seemed a stark contrast to the smoking holes and crooked, creaking buildings of the District's desolate streets. It was considered a miracle that the place had survived mostly untouched in the invasion, and such a place was perfect for Sheridan to conduct his business.

Having abandoned his originally-allocated patient, with permission from the distressed white mage who had taken over, of course, Sheridan had found that the inn keeper was prone to accepting extra funds in return for discretion. An unnecessary precaution, perhaps, but the mage had nonetheless taken it; it wasn't as though he lacked the gil.

On his bed in the furthest room of the inn's second floor level, Sheridan studiously watched the half-open door, anxiously awaiting the telltale flicker of white. Moodon had been a surprisingly long time, though the moogle had repeatedly moaned to Sheridan of the dangers of being caught by the Alexandrian guards, of how he risked life and limb for the red mages and certainly _hoped_ he'd be recompensed with a substantial measure of kupo nuts.

Sheridan fortunately had enough of them on his hands to sweeten that deal; handling moogles was all part and parcel of being a travelling mage. One could never be sure when a message would need to be sent.

Still nothing in the hallway. Sighing, Sheridan turned his gaze to the window, rolling the next soft nut in one hand and caressing the parchment of Regent Cid's last message in the other. Outside, it appeared to have stopped raining, but the condensation still ghosted the glass with fine mist, further obscuring the outside world from the inn's surreal safety.

With the rain gone, he and his companions had little chance of venturing out in the daylight without alerting the Alexandrians. Fog still hazed the streets, but the soldiers would no longer be put off by the downpour and would, he suspected, return to posts they shouldn't have abandoned in the first place, regardless of the weather.

From what he gathered, they appeared to be running leaderless. Queen Brahne, or more specifically, her _Red Rose_, was no longer in Lindblum, and Sheridan had seen very few commanding officers. He suspected he would have known the infamous General Beatrix, had he seen her, and so he was convinced that he hadn't. Perhaps they were simply following the orders given directly after the attack, waiting for someone to come and give the all clear. Surely Alexandria didn't intend to occupy Lindblum forever? With a large majority of the nation's army here, who was defending Alexandria?

One thing was for sure – it had all been very bad judgement on Queen Brahne's part. Sheridan was of the private opinion that her husband's death had simply caused her to lose touch with reality, made her paranoid and itching to make the first move before her delusional, imagined 'threats' took the initiative. A mellow man, he felt more pity for her decline than fury at her ruthless abuse of power. Queen Brahne had issues.

A quiet creak from the oak staircase drew his eyes back to the doorway, but he immediately recognised that the footsteps were too heavy to belong to moogle paws. Sheridan darted lithely to his feet, pressing against the door to close it entirely and pushing one eye to the peephole.

Through the distorted lens in the wood, he caught the flash of red and white and began to relax, reaching for the handle as a familiar harsh-edged female voice drifted through the barrier.

"Sheridan? The inn keeper said you were in there . . ."

Faowri. He'd heard enough of her acidic tongue to know it now by heart. Opening the door, he greeted her with the tightest of smiles, quickly beckoning her inside.

"Why the secrecy?" she murmured as she squeezed through the gap between door and lintel he gave her, taking exaggerated deep breaths and patting her stomach. "It doesn't look like the Alexandrians have much interest in this place."

Sheridan's smile widened at her behaviour, but he still let the solid oak block direct access to the corridor. "I'm not about to take any chances, Faowri. The only reason they've avoided it so far is because the inn keeper's as greedy and shifty as a gimme-cat and would charge them for the privilege of a search. It's only a matter of time before they offer him more than I'm already paying him."

Faowri sighed, pacing to the window and smearing a shallow trail through its misted glass. Her cloak and hat shimmered with the same fine water droplets, making the state of the weather abundantly clear. "They're back out on the streets again, and in force. Fortunately the fog's on our side, for now. If we're lucky, it may rain again."

"We can't depend on luck."

The caustic remark drew a frown from her as she pressed her face to the glass, her breath once more shadowing the path she had cleared. "What _are_ we depending on, then?"

"Regent Cid. I've sent him the finalised details of how, and when, we're to make a move. Now I'm just waiting on his confirmation."

Sheridan saw Faowri's pale eyebrows arch in her reflection. "I'm surprised he's putting so much at risk to help us, to be frank."

"He feels responsible for not heeding prior warnings . . . and evidence."

The reference to the fates of Burmecia and Cleyra was ill-placed, and his one-time apprentice turned from the window, fixing him with a dull look. "It is unsurprising that Lindblum was unprepared for a direct assault. The city has been a friend of Alexandria since as long as I can recall . . ."

Shrugging helplessly, Sheridan slid back to his bed, folding his arms across his thighs as he sat down. "That obviously didn't make it worth saving. No, it seems that Cid had prior, direct warning from someone and clearly decided not to act on it. Did you know the national jewel was taken?"

This time Faowri was vocal with her surprise. "The Falcon Claw? Why?"

"Apparently it was one of the conditions for a 'peaceful' surrender, or so the Regent tells me. He doesn't know why."

"Agh!" The female mage threw up her hands in disgust before folding her arms tightly to her chest and hunching her shoulders. "If we knew that, I suspect we'd be halfway to solving why she's acting this way at all. I just don't understand her behaviour, Sheridan. And even if I did, how would we stop it?"

Desperation clearly edged her voice, an unfamiliar tinge for one so typically cynical and neutral. Sheridan held up a reassuring hand, hoping it would be enough to make her resume her focus.

"We worry about that _after_ we're no longer under threat. After we've escaped."

"What if Treno's next on her list, Sheridan? We could go there and be –"

"I don't think Treno interests her, Faowri."

She shot him a shrewd look, as though suspicious of the statement. But it took her only a moment to remember that he was Sheridan, and preferred blunt truth to sugar-coated lies. Perversely, Faowri then looked deeply offended.

"What's wrong with Treno?"

Sheridan smiled teasingly, and Faowri instantly relaxed, sheepishly rolling her eyes.

"All right, I take your point. I suppose I'll worry when we've escaped. When we've –"

A discreet scratching at the wood of the door interrupted her, and both mages started to their feet, wondering how they'd missed the telltale sound of footsteps on the notoriously creaky staircase. Sheridan strode towards the door – and relaxed, puffing out a bemused sigh at his paranoia.

"I know who it is," he murmured, and promptly tugged the door open without checking the peephole.

Scuttling in on his back feet, Moodon the moogle entered the room, his bulbous red nose twitching furiously. Faowri watched blankly as the creature began to jump at Sheridan's boot while the man closed the door.

"Kupo nut, please!"

The red mage dropped it, and Moodon was quick to snag it up in his paws, balance achieved with a flap of his stubby wings and barely a second passing before he was gnawing away at the treat.

"Did you deliver it?"

"You're probably supposed to ask that first, Sheridan," Faowri said sardonically, flashing him a grin. But the moogle nodded furiously between bites, his pom-pom bouncing up and down in front of his face.

"Yes, kupo. Delivered to Mogki! He said he would get it to Regent Cid. _Lots_ of guards now, kupo."

Sheridan frowned, though he wasn't particularly surprised. "Is that why you took so long?"

"_Long_, kupo?" Moodon shot an offended look up at the proportionally huge human, the thick lashes of his narrowed eyes rippling as they twitched. "Moodon _never_ long, kupo. Moodon always as quick as possible, for kupo nuts!"

Surprisingly, that made sense. The moogle wouldn't have extended the delivery at all longer than necessary with the promise of such a reward on his return. Sheridan accepted the answer with a shrug, turning back to his companion.

"Then I suppose we wait for the Regent's word before making a move. How fares Eril?"

She seemed to welcome the change in subject, drawing a rejuvenating breath that lifted some of the darkness from her misted blue eyes. "Better all the time, but still unable to walk unaided. He's also suitably enthused for the possibility of his companion's survival, though I worry he'll come crashing down if he finds out she isn't . . ."

"You can't stop him getting his hopes up, unfortunately," he said sympathetically, returning to the bed and once more scanning the shorthand of Cid's last message. "At least they'll sustain him throughout the escape."

"Hmm. I left him with Kuj – Kijo, but as he's strong enough to stay on his own for a few hours, I've got Kijo gathering up what supplies he can."

Sheridan nodded, noting her worried frown; she probably hoped he hadn't heard her minor slip-up. Ah, to pursue or to leave . . .

"Your mind's on something else?"

He never could leave such things. At least he knew her well enough to be sure she would get defensive.

"Several 'elses', really," Faowri responded with a sigh. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Sheridan. I suppose I'm just terribly homesick."

"That will, at least, be remedied very soon." Sheridan patted the thick covers of his bed, noting the instant look of relief on the woman's tired face. "I'd prefer you to stay here until we leave; you're less likely to be found. And you should probably get some sleep. You look like you need it."

"Hah!"

But, blunt as he was, he was rarely wrong. Sheridan knew that Faowri knew that, and he politely stepped aside as she strode to accept his offer.

She had barely removed hat and cloak and touched the mattress before she was dozing against the pillow. Sheridan smiled and dug his hand into his belt pouch.

"Moodon. Another kupo nut if you run to white mage Kijo and tell him Faowri is here with me."

"Another! Yes, kupo!"

And the moogle's feet barely touched the ground.

**ooo**

She slept more easily with Sheridan there. For too long now she'd been stuck in this ruined city with the stench of the ill and dying, with the claustrophobic stress of capture over her head, with concern for her missing comrades gnawing at her calm and controlled exterior.

Would _he_ be there when she returned? Faowri hoped so. Kuja hadn't been back to the King family mansion in far too long. The auctioneer had told her he'd seen him a few times . . . but he always miraculously managed to miss her. As if he were avoiding her.

She'd promised when she'd first met Kuja that she wouldn't ask any questions. And she hadn't. But the world wasn't working anymore, something had broken, and something, _something _. . . wasn't right.

If he was there when she returned, Faowri was going to ask her questions.

Only once she'd made that decision could the red mage drift from semi-doze to full sleep. But it seemed as though mere seconds passed in that state before a heavy slam jolted her from it, Faowri's mind reeling with the alteration of lighting as she jerked upright.

Darkness had descended, the room depressingly dim and indistinct. Hours had to have passed and yet she felt as though she hadn't slept at all. And what had awoken her? Where was –

The door swung forcefully open, a moving slab of matter in the shades of fuzzy grey and black her vision had degenerated to. Sheridan's pale mass of hair signified his entry, and half-asleep though she was, Faowri could feel the deep fury resonating in the air about him; the older mage's wrath was never easily provoked, and equally as hard to forget.

Faowri drearily opened her mouth to query his behaviour, but she swiftly realised that he was not alone. Oh no – the inciter of his anger followed, breathless, through the doorway, a dark spindly shape, staggering like a broken mannequin from clear exhaustion.

Sheridan stomped to the window, the grinding of his boots against the floorboards causing her to wince, and he gripped its cold sill in both hands, fingers tight to the wood. He stayed that way for a long moment, unmoving, apparently trying to control himself. Abruptly he snapped back to stare at the gasping visitor, his wordless accusations stretched like tension wires from wall to wall.

"I-It wasn't my fault!" the man spluttered between wrenching breaths, and Faowri recognised the whining undercurrent to the voice, her stomach lurching with belated anxiety at whatever mistake he must have made.

"Machel?" She riveted her gaze on Sheridan, who failed to respond to either utterance, which only heightened her sense of alarm. Shrugging off the blanket he must have covered her with, Faowri clambered awkwardly from the bed. "Sheridan? Someone tell me what's wrong!"

"Why don't you tell her yourself?" Sheridan said to Machel in a tight voice, upon which the skinny mage whimpered, twisting anxiously around in an effort to alleviate the pressure.

"I told you, it wasn't my fault! They came out of nowhere, and he was too slow!"

"Who?" she whispered, her hands tightening around the blanket as she sat perched on the edge of the bed.

"Genner! What was I supposed to do?"

Sheridan's continued silence seemed to interrupt him as heavily as a scream, and Machel's indistinct silhouette swerved back towards him, pleading for an answer that would remove him of blame. But he received no such thing.

"What's happened to Genner?" Faowri demanded, her uncertainty-driven irritation prompting her to rise from the bed. "Why are you so angry, Sheridan? _What's going on_?"

"He left Genner to the Alexandrians while he ran away, to _here_!" Sheridan growled in response, and quickly tightened his jaw against the unbecoming scowl. "Considering that he was the one who wanted to stay, and Genner encouraged him to leave, I'd call it poetic _in_justice."

"What was I supposed to _do_?" Machel groaned, folding his lanky arms across his chest and pacing the length of the room, his breathing still evidently heavy.

"Cover each other!" Faowri found herself snapping out. "Some partner you are, Machel. Poor Genner . . . did you by any chance happen to see what they did to him if you glanced over your shoulder while you were running away?"

Machel cringed, perceptibly stiffening. "N-no. The fog was too thick, Faowri, I panicked! They called us out and we ran, but Genner just . . . just fell behind!"

"You're lucky that he provided a distraction, Machel," Sheridan hissed. "Don't think for a second that I'm glad you escaped. But if Genner's capture hadn't distracted them from you, you might have led them right to us!"

The mage gasped out incoherent denials, his gaze flitting desperately back and forth between his two peers. Faowri had never liked the man, and his abandonment of a colleague only intensified her distaste.

" . . . Faowri."

Sheridan's voice had resumed its normal low, monotonous quality, and she glanced up automatically, awaiting an inevitable command.

"Please get yourself ready. We're leaving _now_."

Scrambling away from the bed, she snatched up her hat from its nearest post and shoved it onto her head, brushing urgently at her clothes. "Regent Cid returned confirmation?"

"No!"

The sheer desperation in Sheridan's voice caused her to stop in her tracks, and she only resumed tugging on her boots over her thick tights when he frantically waved a hand at her to do so.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've received _nothing_, Faowri. I don't know if he even got my last message. I sent Moodon to check but he's been gone for hours. And we don't have time to wait and see. My last message was a plea for Cid to change the original rendezvous time, and if he didn't get it, we'll get there when he's not expecting us. Everything could go wrong!"

Her boots rammed onto her feet, Faowri quickly made use of both, catching Sheridan's hand and clutching it in what she hoped was a reassuring manner.

"Perhaps his absence of a return message was his confirmation . . ."

"I don't know . . ." Her old mentor shut his eyes tightly, lips pursed into a thin line with heavy concentration, and it was a long moment before he opened them again, brushing her hand away with a grateful pat. "I suppose we'll see. We couldn't make it before full dark as he'd originally specified. That was why I wanted to change it . . ."

"It will still work! If Cid's not there, we'll make it work ourselves!" Faowri turned, pushing sharply past Machel and ignoring his cry of protest. "The others are waiting?"

"Yes. With Eril and Kijo."

"Then let's not keep them."

Faowri slipped out of the room, Sheridan's reassuringly solid footsteps mere seconds behind her. Machel, however, took the time to release a wretched, groaning sigh before he made the effort to pursue.

Neither Faowri nor Sheridan held the door for him.

_Author's Note: I'm really sorry for the lax updates here, I hate to disappoint the people who are kind enough to read and review my fanfiction at all. Thanks a tonne for your patience - I've just been so busy with other things lately, I'm really struggling to fit fanfiction in. _

You may notice that this chapter says "Part 1" - the good news is that Part 2 is almost complete! I've just a few pages to go, and then I'll upload ASAP. So don't panic - I've not given up!

Minor note - There are cross-references in this section between Spectrum Inversus and The First, where Kuja and Faowri have actually met and entertain a very odd sort of friendship. For more info, read up on The First (also incomplete >.>; I'll get there eventually ).

xxLCxx


	6. Exodus Part 2

**5: Exodus   
Part 2   
**

"Where _are_ they?" 

Talis' petulant whisper was absorbed by the darkness, lost to the faint swirls of damp fog still hanging throughout the dark streets like fine draperies. It seemed as though no one would answer her, but Fersan eventually released a long-suffering sigh towards the young girl, his Treno dialect thickening his reply. 

"Ask that one more time, love, and you'll drive me mad. Katrill, reassure your apprentice, would you?" 

Though Eril couldn't see the old woman, even as close as the mages were huddled behind the broken wall at the front of his allocated place of rest, her pompous snort was audible. 

"We're all nervous, Fersan," she informed him in her pompous drawl. "Talis, please be patient. They'll be here when they're ready. Do you see anything, Davin?" 

The Burmecian didn't immediately reply, and the clustered, budding escapees leaned forward to peer at the spot he was crouched in. His dark fur blended more thoroughly with the evening and his eyesight was sharper, so he had offered to keep watch while the others kept themselves secreted. Never a particularly loud character, Davin's continued quietness was unnerving, but no one questioned it since he'd applied himself so wholeheartedly to his cause since coming here. Everyone knew what was holding his tongue. 

" . . . Nothing. No guards," he whispered, his voice fraught with suspicion. 

The mages lapsed into awkward silence, only the low sound of their collective breathing penetrating the fog's hoarse, sullen murmur. 

Kijo was sitting against the door, idly thinking that the damp air would not be good for Eril in his weakened state. Only Nuis' soft, unsettled crooning disturbed the heavy quiet, and the white mage absently ruffled the feathers on the back of her neck, responding with a quietly neutral regard to the urgent glares from the others, demanding silence. 

The absence of a night watch worried Kijo less than the absence of the black mage. As much as he liked to believe it had fled, he just couldn't stop thinking about it. About the raw chaos and turmoil he had felt, the essence of life that had sparked from his fingers to that puppet. 

A puppet without strings. That was what that black mage was. None of the others who had assisted the decimation of Lindblum had survived past the first night, their given purpose complete. Kijo had resurrected a puppet with no purpose, and he was no fool not to realise how potentially dangerous that was. 

He glanced sideways through the gloom towards Eril, wondering if he harboured the same concerns. The invalid was staring hard at his boots, sitting hunched in the makeshift flexible stretcher made for him. Kijo realised almost bitterly that Eril's mind had probably only been on one thing since hearing news of the Alexandrian army's behaviour. 

Puffing out a sigh that rippled through the chicobo's feathers, Kijo tilted his head back against the damp wood. There was nothing he could do about it, nothing _realistic_, if he didn't know where it was. He'd just have to squash the itch he felt to go and seek it out – there were more immediate matters to hand. 

Davin's soft warning hiss interrupted his thoughts, and the mages turned to stare at him as one, eyes wide with trepidation. The dragoon scuttled backwards on his clawed feet, further into the enclosing low wall. 

"Someone's coming . . ." 

Indeed, two figures were materialising through the pale swirls etching the darkness, followed by a third, like ghosts manifesting from the gloom. But their familiar uniforms and faces prompted a rippling wave of relief – until the realisation that the numbers didn't add up replaced it with panic. 

"Who's missing?" 

"There are supposed to be ten of us!" 

The frightened cries were quickly overridden by Sheridan's firm hand gesture. 

"Genner has been taken. We must move, and quickly. Is everyone ready?" 

All eyes fell to Machel, cowering not so subtly behind a perceptibly rigid Faowri. But no one wasted more than a few derisive seconds on him, and the mages climbed to their feet, Fersan and Davin grabbing the ends of the stretcher as Eril murmured his embarrassment and thanks. A simple cloth construction formed from thick curtains and a wooden pole at either end, the stretcher was sturdy enough to support the red mage's weight without proving too burdensome or big for its carriers. 

Kijo clutched Nuis to his chest, hefting one of the satchels of supplies onto his shoulder and awkwardly holding his staff at the same time. His hands were more than full, but he had no intentions of being dead weight on this expedition. 

Overlooking the assembly, his jaw square with anxiety, Sheridan gave an approving nod, adjusting his hat one last time and turning to look for any signs of guards before beckoning them on towards the air cab station. 

There were still no guards. 

Together, the large group of nine were more than conspicuous, but rather than find relief in the low level of security, the mages grew only more concerned. It was as though the world had left them behind and what they traversed was now an empty shell, devoid of life, riddled with the depressing fog. 

There was not a single member who didn't release relieved murmurings at the sight of lights and the sound of the ticking clock within the air cab station. As long as everything had gone to plan, the light was safety rather than potential danger. Of course, as none of them could be sure until they saw who was manning the station, they still entered warily, blood burning with preparatory spells of protection and defence. 

For once, Justin's cheery cry of "Long live the rebellion!" wasn't met with groans, and Faowri advanced past the group, spotting the young man standing beside the open door of the air cab. The shuttle thrummed with heat and power, a tangible area of warmth in a city that seemed to have grown as cold and desolate as the Lost Continent. 

She crossed the concrete platform towards the boy – and struggled against the upsurge of icy panic as she caught sight of an Alexandrian soldier standing inside the air cab, silently watching her approach. Her shock must have been obvious because Justin snatched at her arm before she could physically react, giving it a reassuring shake. 

"Hey, she's helping us out! Don't you remember?" 

Sheridan stepped up beside her, tentatively touching her shoulder. "I told you, Faowri. Justin's friend is helping us reach the Castle." 

Turning her decidedly relieved gaze on the soldier, Faowri thought 'Justin's friend' didn't seem all too confident about her assistance. She couldn't see the woman's eyes beneath the darkness of her helmet, but she looked young, around Justin's age, and her lips were nervously pursed into a tight, thin line. 

"This is Nicole," the young rebel announced proudly, awarding Faowri a sly grin. "My girlfriend." 

"Justin, shut up," she hissed, slashing her sword threateningly in his direction. "And hurry up! You have no idea how horribly this could go wrong." 

Faowri turned back to the waiting mages, stepping aside to permit them to file in. Fidgeting Nicole also stepped out of the cab, standing beside her and nattering away in her anxiety. 

"You're on thin ice. I had to fight for this post. Not that I was alone since everyone wanted to be indoors, in the warm . . ." 

"Then at least you won't have aroused much suspicion." 

Nicole shook her head, picking at the clasps of her gauntlet. "I suppose not. At least, not until this whole charade is discovered and I'm blamed for assisting you." 

She looked rather too young to be a fighting soldier, Faowri thought with a frown. In exactly the same way that Justin was too young to be a revolutionary leader. The difference being that Nicole was all too aware of the possible consequences of her actions, while her boyfriend remained oblivious. 

"We hope to remain undiscovered," she said reassuringly. "And Justin will help you make it look like you were forced to help, I'm sure. We're very grateful for your assistance. Why there are no guards about?" 

Nicole threw her a crooked grin, hurriedly stepping inside after the Faowri. "No one wants to be out in the fog, that's why. By all means, there _should_ be guards out. But there are so few commanding officers, no General Beatrix . . . discipline's become a little lax, I'm afraid." 

Faowri echoed her smile as she watched her slide the door shut. "It's good news for us. No need to apologise." 

Nodding glumly, the soldier moved to the shuttle-runner's compartment, where, clearly, the Lindblum-originating driver was only too willing to oblige, chattering his excitement at helping 'the rebellion'. It was only the driver and Justin, however, to appear at all positive about the endeavour; a sullen, sickening tension had consumed every other member of the escape party, so that they sat and stood in silence while the air cab rattled along its rails, moving none-too-quietly towards the Castle station. 

"The waiting is the worst part," Katrill whispered after a moment, and the others nodded agreement – except for Machel, who was standing away from the group, staring dismally at the wall of the heavy shuttle. Faowri rather hoped he was feeling extremely guilty for leaving poor Genner behind. An abrupt thought struck and she turned to the rather green-looking Nicole, licking her lower lip. 

"Do you know what's happening to the red mages they're taking away?" 

Every member of the party looked up at her, prompting a nervous sigh from the girl. "I'm not sure. Our orders are just to bring any we find to superior officers. But I've heard they're being removed to Alexandria for questioning." 

"Questioning?" Even Sheridan's normally neutral tone was thick with disgust. "Questioning about _what_? We're only here to support the white mages." 

Nicole shrugged her bare shoulders, shying away from the man's fervent glare until he glanced back to the front of the carriage, muttering an apology. 

"I just don't know. Obviously, I'm no longer honouring every order given. I've been against this invasion from the start, and I would have backed out, had I known what her Majesty had planned when she gave the order to embark for Lindblum." 

A hiss of steam interrupted what had probably been a scornful reply from Fersan, and the cab juddered to a halt, throwing them all off balance. Faowri would have flown down the centre aisle has she not been clutching one of the vertical steel poles. 

Any responses to Nicole had been lost in the resurgence of nerves, for they had arrived and now it was time to take the real risks. Together, the red mages regained their composure and belongings and edged towards the door. 

Surprisingly, it was Nicole who barred their path, her metal gauntlet closed around the blade of her sword and her tongue poking between her lips. She tossed the weapon to the floor with a heavy clang. 

"I need you to do me the honours, first," she said, the tremor in her voice unmistakable. 

Before Faowri could react, Justin squeezed past her party, turning to direct his gaze towards Kijo – or more particularly, Kijo's thick wooden staff. The white mage's eyes widened. 

"As a white mage it would be extremely detrimental for me to allow –" 

The rebel strode forward, snatched it from his grasp, and turned towards Nicole, who had obligingly faced in the opposite direction. 

"Not too hard, Justin," she muttered with a sigh. "I don't want that big a headache after all this." 

"I promise I'll bring you a present to make up for it!" he replied in a wheedling I-know-you're-not-going-to-like-this-but-I'm-doing-it-anyway boyfriend voice that Nicole appeared to be quite familiar with, because she smiled inanely at the far wall. And then he brought the staff up solidly against the back of her helm. 

The clang was wince-inducing and Nicole immediately crumpled to a convincing, sprawled heap on the floor. Justin mutely handed the staff back to quietly outraged Kijo, stooping in silence to inspect the damage and give her dyed-blonde hair an affectionate and apologetic pat. 

He rose to his feet with a dignified sniff. 

"Let's go," he croaked, and dragged the cab door aside, hurrying out of the shuttle before his emotions overcame his determined rebellious drive. 

It seemed darker in the Castle than the streets of the Business District. The fog was less pervasive, replaced instead by the blackness of evening, and Justin ran out first into it, dashing onto the stairs of the station to get a better look at the Castle's entrance. 

The look on his face was not encouraging. 

Waiting impatiently beyond the path leading up to the Castle, the red mages watched with apprehension as Justin returned to them with a worried expression, his eyes gleaming wetly at the clear possibility of failure. 

"They . . . there are guards, everywhere!" he hissed. "Swarming around the entrance. Did they know? Have you been indiscreet?" 

"Of course not," Sheridan muttered, tilting his gaze to the sky with an exhausted exhalation. After a moment, he swivelled back to his followers, his eyes carefully neutral in their regard. "It's no good. I'm going to have to go and distract them while the rest of you escape into the Castle. Regent Cid said Minister Artania would be waiting for us, to help us get to Dragon's Gate." 

"You?" Faowri shook her head in earnest, glancing wildly around at their companions as though someone else might volunteer, only realising the futility as everyone once more looked to the cringing Machel. Yes, it would be poetic justice for him to sacrifice his freedom. After all, he was the one who had abandoned his team mate, who had originally wanted to stay in Lindblum and risk capture . . . 

"I'll do it." 

The voice startlingly came from behind them, and the mages all turned to look at Justin's determined face, displaying mixed reactions at his inappropriate sacrifice. 

"Justin, you've done enough for us already . . ." Faowri began, but the young man furiously shook his head, already striding past them towards the path. 

"I'm the best person for it," he said firmly. "They don't take me seriously, so I'll probably get away with a clip around the ear. But one of you would get it in the neck. Understand? It has to be me. I said I'll do it. So get ready to run." 

Sheridan stared hard at the boy's back, tightly clenching his jaw. " . . . Thank you, Justin. When all of this is over, I promise you and Nicole will be repaid in kind." 

The rebel looked back, flashing a cocky grin. "Aww, you don't have to do that. In case you haven't noticed . . . I'm kinda doing all of this for Lindblum. Get ready!" 

He darted back inside the shuttle, reappearing with Nicole's weighty broadsword. Fersan gave him a friendly thump on the back as he dragged it onto the pillar-lined path. 

There, Justin came to a halt, squaring his adolescent shoulders. He swung the broadsword up over his head in a manner that nearly lopped Fersan's from his neck, and finally ran full pelt towards the square outside the Castle entrance. 

His wild, screaming battle cry didn't erupt from his lungs until he was well on his way, but its effect was immediate. The yelling of the startled soldiers was a clear signal to move, and still silently applauding Justin's sacrifice, the mages hurriedly obeyed. 

Justin had been right in his stunned approximation. Faowri's stomach lurched at the sight of so many guards, clustered near the airship bay, and a rapid realisation knifed its way through her resolve even as the tightly-knit group darted towards the Castle entrance. 

_They were going to be seen._

The guards already had Justin wrestled to the ground; his shouting and screaming were likely audible all over Lindblum. She anticipated mere seconds before – 

One of the guards, stumbling over the young rebel in an attempt to pin him to the ground, caught sight of the Castle's imposing entrance arch. 

And the numerous running figures slipping into the darkness beyond. 

Faowri's nerves jangled with the force of the woman's alerting cry, and she involuntarily echoed it with a desperate wail of her own. 

"Damn! Sheridan!" 

"To the elevator, we've no time!" 

Her mentor's equally panicked command was immediately heeded. Fersan and Davin glided through the group, and she caught a glimpse of Eril's pale, panic-stricken face as they hauled the stretcher along between them, charging straight ahead for the elevator. The remainder of the mages fell in directly behind them, the clatter of their booted feet in the entrance hall making enough noise to alert the entire Alexandrian regiment. 

Faowri hoped they'd all fit into the elevator. There would never be enough time for two trips, and she didn't relish the idea of staying behind. Even if she wanted to, she'd have to be with the travelling party, or else they'd never make it through the Bohden Gate. 

Deliberately slowing to get to the back of the group, Faowri clenched her fist, subconsciously tapping into the surrounding myriad patterns of background magic and allowing it to fuel her blood with raw ice. As she trod backwards up the steps to the marble elevator platform, she aimed both hands at the narrow passageway a few feet in front of the running guards. 

The burst of ice from her fingertips sent an almighty gust of cold both in front and behind, the backdraft tearing her cloak up into the air and inciting a gasp from her fellows. In front, Faowri maintained a steady stream of ice, a wall of glistening white curving from the floor to tower over the guards now skidding to avoid a collision. 

While they cowered behind their shields in the face of such daunting cold, Faowri remained spellbound until the ice was so intense she could barely feel the hands expelling it, and Sheridan snagged her elbow to tear her from the casting. The mage staggered backwards, drawn by her old mentor until the pair of them were cramming into the elevator along with the rest of the group. 

Gods, a tight fit. Faowri pleaded with her own private deities not to let the contraption plummet beneath the weight, but her worries were lost as spidery cracks began to form in the barrier of ice; the guards behind it were slashing away furiously with their swords, and shrill orders formed an echoing cacophony in the hall. If the red mages were caught, Faowri expected no leniency from the Alexandrian army. 

Someone slammed the down button, and the doors mercifully slid closed on the threatening sights and sounds. The elevator began its painfully slow descent to the bottom of the cliff. 

A commanding soldier was found who knew a little magic. The wall was removed with a swift fire spell that miraculously avoided the expensive interior of the Castle's main hall. 

Within moments, Major Harmone, red-faced and furious, was striding up to the elevator. It was a long way to the bottom of the cliff. And she intended to make it even longer. 

Beneath the extravagant pillar of the elevator's call button was a panel, flush with the floor. Harmone jammed her sword into the appropriate ridge and prised the slab off in a clear display of temper. She barely glanced at the turning cogs and wheels inside before she slammed the blade deep between several interconnected cogs. 

A nightmarish grinding squeal grated from within, accompanied by friction-generated smoke as metal was driven hard against metal. For a moment, the Major thought her broadsword might actually break beneath the pressure, but blade won over machinery and the latter's gears slowly, painfully slowly, began to stop turning. 

The elevator would now be stuck. 

"That oughta hold the bastards," she sneered, turning directly to the soldiers behind her. 

First Lieutenant Biggs was in the seemingly never-ending process of nagging her underling. "I told you those moogles were up to no good! You should always listen to me; I _know_ when I'm right." 

"Yeah." Private Wedge's response was automated, and her attentions were quick to return to Major Harmone. "If they're smart, which I'm thinking they must be, there's still a way down . . ." 

The Major flicked a hand dismissively at her. "They're headed for Dragon's Gate. It said so in that note we interpreted. And they'll get there, too, no doubt. I just need a little time to prepare, that's all." 

Wedge tilted her helm forward so that her superior wouldn't see the scathing look currently riveted upon her. "Then what, Ma'am?" 

"Oh, I've made arrangements for the possibility. Smart arrangements. You don't take on mages head on, you know." The tall woman flexed the back of her hand in non-too modest appraisal of her gauntlet. "See? You all whine, you all complain, but General Beatrix herself couldn't have handled it better. And she'll be exceedingly happy with my accomplishments!" Harmone's eyes began to sparkle with imagined glory. 

"General Beatrix would never have mistaken a boy for a group of conspirators," Wedge murmured beneath her breath. 

"Or have sent the entire frontal security of the castle after said boy," Biggs persisted, for once in grudging agreement with her subordinate. 

Since Major Harmone's sword was currently preoccupied, she raised an angular fist at the pair and seemed about to follow through with the attack until they scattered. Sniffing at their cowardly retreat, the woman propelled herself towards the Castle's entrance arch instead, continuing to rattle off a scornful diatribe along the way. 

"You'll see, when I make General Beatrix proud to have left me in charge! Nailing a few troublesome heretics isn't a problem, mark my word! Now get your arses after them!" 

Scowling after her, Wedge took one look at Biggs and realised that the only single way in which to follow the evasive red mages wouldn't be able to accommodate the heavy woman. The Private adjusted her armour with an irritated sigh, and plodded back towards the elevator. 

"After me, then." 

When the elevator juddered to a halt, Sheridan swore he felt his heart mimic the motion. The jarring stop threw Fersan and Faowri to the tightly-packed floor and sent several others sprawling in the process. With the group so jammed together in the confined space, panic was quick to tinge the uncomfortably warm air and Talis' shrill exclamation that the lift was about to plummet and they were all going to die did little to help matters. 

Squeezed against the glass of the elevator's wall, Sheridan managed to snatch the girl by the shoulder and give her an unsympathetic shake. 

"They've just stopped the lift! Everybody calm down!" 

"And that somehow makes things better?" Katrill gasped, her worn face marred with extra lines of fear and distress. "So we sit here and wait for them to get down below? Or maybe they'll leave us here to wither away to nothing!" 

"You're panicking." 

"Too bloody right!" 

"_If_ you'd all kindly shut your frickin' gobs," Fersan yelled as he struggled to find his way back to his feet, "I just saw our escape route while you were all tripping over me!" 

Machel offered the man a hand, which Fersan took with a deliberately painful grip, and in the resulting helpless silence he squeezed between his companions towards Sheridan's end of the elevator. Somewhere, still wedged against the glass, Faowri croaked her confirmation as she struggled to make her still numb hands support her weight. 

"He's right, just calm down. We can still make it." 

"But, _how_?" Talis whined in such a high-pitched voice that Kijo's chicobo squealed its equivalent protests until the noise was simply too much for Sheridan to stand. He slammed his hands against the glass and shouted above the furore. 

"Shut up! All of you! Just let Fersan try his plan!" 

Startled into silence by Sheridan's uncharacteristic yelling, the mages instead huddled back against the elevator's walls, edgily trying to clear a space for Fersan, whose grumbled complaints didn't stop him from reaching a rectangular panel in the metal floor. Removing one of his gloves to reveal a surprisingly slender, delicately-boned hand, he slipped it into the shallow depression that formed the handle, and pulled the plate away from its place. 

Beneath it, darkness plunged. The lamplight at what could only be assumed as the bottom of the elevator shaft seemed very, very far away, a faint flare of illumination in the distance. 

Fersan's appreciative whistle broke the silence of collectively held breaths, and without waiting for a response, he tugged on his glove and fearlessly planted both hands either side of gap, sliding his lithe body through into the darkness. 

It was Sheridan who lunged forward to grab his shoulder, his startled gasp echoed by the other mages, but Fersan glanced back with a grin, remaining hoisted by both arms within the gap as his feet fumbled for something in the thick shadows below. There was an eventual clunk as his boot hit something metallic, followed by Fersan's satisfied sigh. 

"Don't panic. There's a ladder. Some kind of indented service passage. I'll go first to help the rest down; where there's a service hatch, there's bound to be company if we're not fast." 

Sheridan licked his lower lip, turning to face the worried expressions of the group. The idea of climbing the rest of the way down didn't fill him with glee, but there was little choice. Still, with Eril injured, and the numerous travel bags they had with them . . . 

The mage turned towards the luggage, startled to see Kijo furiously tearing out some of the contents of his heavy bag, his eyes neurotically skipping over the items and occasionally prompting him to stuff something back inside the leather casing. 

"Too big," he said as he noticed Sheridan's urgent gaze upon him. "Won't fit through the hatch. I've got to get rid of some of its contents." 

"Just remember the journey we have ahead of us _after_ escaping," Sheridan warned weakly, though he knew as well as Kijo did that whether they were going to escape at all was by far the more immediate worry. 

Fersan had wedged himself into the corner of the service shaft, freeing the ladder space. He was in the process of guiding Katrill's feet onto one of the metal rungs, his urgent eyes darting skyward. It was too dark to make out further than a few metres up the dark, vertical tunnel, but his hissed warning for the others to "get a move on" was clear enough. 

The supply bag was now half its former size, and Kijo scooped up Nuis's agitated body, tossing the chicobo into Eril's lap. The man was watching the hatch as more mages disappeared through it, the rapid clanking of boots against the ladder rungs echoing from the service shaft, and he swallowed hard. 

"Kijo . . . I won't be able to climb that ladder." 

"You won't need to. Sheridan? Pass the bag through to Fersan." 

The older mage dragged the satchel across the clearing elevator floor, glaring daggers at Machel as he hesitated to descend through the dark hole. "What _are_ you doing about –" 

"A float spell should allow me to ease Eril down during my own descent. It won't let me just drop him from the hatch, obviously – he'd still hit the floor with some force – but I won't have to carry him and he won't have to climb down. Just keep moving!" 

"You heard the young man, Sheridan!" Fersan's irrepressible voice reverberated from below. There was a clank as he reasserted himself on the ladder, one hand stretching up to take the bag. "Give it 'ere." 

No sooner had the leather satchel passed from one man to the other than Fersan jerked back with a cry of pain and surprise from the hole, and Sheridan saw something suspiciously sharp deflected from the metal ladder rungs, spinning past out of sight. 

And it was followed by the bag. 

Fersan's vivid cursing grew fouler as the satchel crashed down the service hatch, its route distinguishable from the thuds and shouts as it collided with mages already hurrying down the ladder. 

"Shit! Catch the bloody thing!" 

Evidently, no one obeyed the command. There was a dead thump, resounding from below. Sheridan found himself gasping with relief that there had only been one ominous impact. 

"Everyone still alive?" Fersan bellowed down the shaft. 

Before an appropriate response was gathered, a threatening cry from above identified the source of Fersan's initial distraction. Everything beyond that seemed to happen at once – Sheridan was near-falling down the hatch, Kijo casting the float spell behind him and dragging a drifting Eril, sans stretcher, behind him by the toe of one boot. A plunge into that dark void, and the ladder was in his grasp, Sheridan descending rung over rung in a bid to beat the soldier threat far above. No further missiles flew down to impede their progress, but the ominous clanging suggested the pace of the enemy had considerably picked up. 

Just behind him on the ladder, Kijo had used one of the stretcher's straps to secure Eril by the waist to his own belt, and the injured mage was serenely drifting at the end of his tether, the gleaming whites of his frightened eyes rigidly fixed below – he was well aware that, should Kijo's tie on him break, his descent would grow more rapid until the float spell stood little chance of protecting him from the ground upon impact. 

The shaft seemed endless, and in his haste, Sheridan missed rungs and nearly slipped far more than he would have liked. It was a relieving, and yet startling surprise when his boot hit solid ground, throwing him off balance as he'd expected yet another ladder rung. Before he could recover from that near-stumble, and pass an urgent look around the gather red mages who awaited his instruction, a robed figure lunged from the darkness, waving the dimmest lantern Sheridan had ever seen so that it barely illuminated the man's face. 

He was lucky, Sheridan always thought in retrospect, that the other mages hadn't attacked him then and there. Everyone's nerves were frayed to nothing, and ominous men rushing out of the darkness did nothing to improve their confidence. His saviour was more than likely the crumpled satchel-bag, drawing the anxious attentions of those who had already dismounted and were now wondering how they were going to survive a cross-country hike with mangled supplies. 

Sheridan left them to it, flexing a hand in preparation for a swift offensive spell, but he had no need to use it as he made out the indistinct features on the man's face, immediately recognising the wizened hazel eyes and the countenance they dominated. 

"Minister Artania?" 

"Where _have_ you been?" was the Minister's hissed reply. His weathered hand curled around the lamp, further quashing its already meagre radiance. "Regent Cid said you would be here hours ago!" 

"We never received word back from him!" 

"Uh, pardon the intrusion, gents . . ." Fersan forced himself between them, one hand waving urgently towards the elevator shaft's ladder, where Kijo and Eril were just dismounting. "But we really need to get our arses into gear here!" 

Sheridan nodded agreement, gesturing for Artania to lead the way. A small, rough-edged flicker of hope had begun to blossom amidst the nausea of his churning stomach – they were so close, that they might actually succeed . . . 

"There must have been interference with the mail," the Minister rattled with a disregarding wave of his hand, stepping with unusual swiftness for a man of his age towards the rail-car tracks that would lead to the Dragon's Gate. "Regardless of the mess, I must confess I'm anxious about this undertaking. Regent Cid sent me to see what I could do about the guards down here –" 

"And have you?" 

Artania shot Fersan a bewildered look; apparently he was unused to his rambling being interrupted. "I would have, but there aren't any! And I don't like the smell of it – the Alexandrians know what you're doing and they have something planned. Perhaps it would be wiser to –" 

Faowri snorted, halting his dull-toned speech a second time. "To stay and be captured? I'd rather risk whatever they have in store for us." 

The mages piled onto the rail cart, and Sheridan lingered until Eril and Minister Artania had boarded before directing his palm at the base of the maintenance shaft, where the scantily-armoured figure of an Alexandrian soldier had just agilely leapt from the ladder. 

"Halt, miscreants!" 

Sheridan released a hail of magic, and an arc of lightning sliced through the darkness to strike with a resounding clap at the feet of the unprepared woman. The explosion was minor, but enough to crudely illuminate her startled expression as she was shoved back against the ladder by the force of the shock. A groan escaped her and she crumpled to the floor, and though the easy victory meant Sheridan could leap onto the rail car and signal for the lever to be pulled to propel the group forward, the notable lack of any other reinforcements sent a quivering bolt of unease through his mind. 

The shuttle hurtled through the gloom, obscuring the groaning soldier from sight. 

It was only a short trip at such speed to reach the outer edge of the cliff through which the bowels of Lindblum had been carved. The unexpected halt that most disconcertingly seemed unable to come in time to prevent the open-topped shuttle from slamming straight into the wall somehow managed to line them up perfectly and safely along the tracks with the platform exit, and immediately a slew of mages piled out, blood burning with magic for the soldiers that awaited. 

There were none. 

Sheridan felt his unease become a strident warble of panic. Might their enemies have decided they weren't worth pursuing? If so, why send a soldier down the elevator shaft for them? Unless perhaps they'd only just decided not to engage any further . . . but that meant any soldiers they'd placed down here would still be here, and under the previous orders. 

Unless they hadn't placed soldiers here at all. But the Alexandrians weren't such a complacent breed. Though even the streets had been mostly empty of soldiers – where could they all have gone? 

Faowri grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the tantalisingly unguarded gate, and Talis was babbling in sheer delighted relief. 

"We made it, we really made it!" 

"Wait . . . Something isn't right here . . ." 

Sheridan's protest was overruled by all but Minister Artania, who shot him a worried glance. 

"Please, be careful. I don't know what their plan is, but they're not through with you yet." 

With unusual abruptness and disregard for caution, Faowri gave the minister a grateful but impatient look as she and Fersan forced open the small door in the huge Dragon's Gate. 

"What more can they possibly do once we're out of Lindblum? I just want to leave this place of persecution and get my Order to safety!" 

A strident murmur of agreement erupted from the group, protests to the tune of "what if they're coming along the tracks right now to chase us?" overriding any sense of impending danger. They had been hounded, harassed and abused in this city for simply helping the survivors, and the mages had suffered enough. They wanted to leave, and no word of warning from even Sheridan was going to persuade them to wait even a second longer. 

Fersan and Faowri were out of the door first, plunging into the Mist-streaked darkness and while the former flew ahead, Faowri lingered back to usher the rest out of the door. Cool night air, tainted with the bitter odour of vile Mist, wafted into the Dragon's Gate entrance, and Sheridan shuddered. Faowri was, in a manner of speaking, correct. They could scarcely stay here all night. He turned to Minister Artania with a stiff nod. 

"My thanks to you and Regent Cid. You've taken many risks for us and the Red Order is in your debt." 

"I think you'll find we're in yours for doing your best to aid our wounded. I wish you luck!" 

The man was sinking discreetly into the shadows before Sheridan could even dart for the door. 

An incredible feeling of cold agoraphobia enveloped him as soon as he had moved a few feet from the open, sending a second involuntary shudder jolting down his spine. Nonetheless, he ran to catch up with the others, his eyes taking long, long moments to adjust to the dark. Fersan seemed to be in the lead, running correctly in the nor'westerly direction that would lead them to South Gate. Machel was unsurprisingly right behind him, in a bid to overtake rather than follow, whereas Davin's significantly different silhouette accompanied Faowri's as they continually halted to ensure their companions were successfully following, the supply bag hauled between them. Katrill and Talis were running in unison, the apprentice clutching at the hand of her mentor in childish fright. Sheridan couldn't deny that the darkness made all that open space around them excruciatingly ominous. 

Just ahead of him, Kijo and Eril ground to a halt, and Sheridan almost tripped over them as he failed to slow his furious pace. 

"Sheridan, help!" 

The cry was Kijo's, and it took only seconds for Sheridan to realise the float spell had worn off. As the white mage separated himself from the red to free their movement, he darted in, barely pausing as he swept a startled Eril onto his tall frame. Eril was by no means a lightweight, but Sheridan was too adrenaline-fuelled to care just yet, and he would have continued running had Kijo not snatched violently at his trailing cloak with a gut-wrenching gasp. 

The mage's hand shot skyward, angling towards the top of the cliff, and Sheridan spun, blinking furiously at the indistinct apex of the cliff. 

And then ice flooded his veins as he realise what he was staring at. 

"_Mages, halt_!" 

Sheridan's penetrating cry drove everyone to follow his hoarse command. Faowri's eyes still hadn't adjusted fully to the dark, the shapes of the night indistinct and confusing, but she could see enough to make out her old mentor's hand pointing towards the top of the cliff which loomed behind them. 

A great line of figures stood at its edge, forming a number Faowri didn't feel confident enough to estimate. Just standing there, watching them. She listened to her own breath tearing from her lungs, and could distantly hear the breathing of the others around her, but otherwise the night was deathly silent. 

What were they doing? Intimidating the mages against returning? That made next to no sense, since she doubted any of them had any intention of going back to Lindblum unless Brahne's fingers were well and truly removed from that crumbling pie. 

An indecipherable shout echoed from the cliff top, the shadowy figures shifting in their position. The noise had been a military order, of that there was no doubt. But only when dozens of slim, threatening shapes snapped from the silhouettes upon a second command and a high-pitched, keening whistle filled the air did Faowri realise what was being instructed. 

"Protect yourselves!" she screamed, as loudly as she could, her fingertips brimming with magic even as her comrades flared blue with protection spells. When she herself began to emanate azure light, the air touching her skin intensifying with magic to form a solid shield of defence, her night vision was shattered, and Faowri was blind. She threw all of her weight to the floor and snatched her limbs tightly to her frame, jaw clenched in preparation for a battering from many falling arrows. 

The deadly rain of weaponry descended upon them in a breath. Faowri couldn't see, but she heard the bolts thudding into the ground all around her, the tremors caused by their collective impact shuddering through her tightly-curled form. 

And there were other noises. Bursting gasps of pain, panicked cries – and one particularly stomach-curdling scream that ended as abruptly as it began. It came from behind her, and as soon as the hail of arrows ceased, Faowri scrambled to her feet, almost tripping over herself in her bid to reach the cause of that awful wail. 

Talis' sobbing directed her, and the pale illumination of her protection spell revealed that the girl was half collapsed over her mentor. Neither were mimicking her radiance; apparently they had realised too late what was coming. Faowri snatched at Talis, tugging her away from Katrill and suffering several weak, protesting slaps to the arm until she saw the long, sinister shape protruding from the young apprentice's thigh. 

Faowri knew she had only seconds and fumbled for Katrill's shoulder, giving the older mage a tug to shake her to her senses, but her mouth gaped as the blue glow cast unflattering light on where exactly she had been hit, and the rigid expression fixed on the woman's face. Though she was wearing gloves, Faowri felt the fingertips slide against blood, and she released Katrill with a heavy swallow. 

She absently wondered how Talis would feel about leaving her mentor's body behind. 

"Incoming!" 

The voice seemed to belong to Fersan, but Faowri only worried about such details later, instead tearing Talis mercilessly from Katrill's corpse. There was no time to weave a protection spell around her, or deal with her demands that Faowri tend to her mentor – it was imperative that they get out of range, and out of the clutches of the Alexandrians for good. With most of them glowing blue, they'd be ridiculously obvious targets for quite some time. 

That whining keen split the air again, and Faowri shoved Talis to the ground, curling over the top of her trembling frame. This time she wasn't quite so lucky – a blow with the force of a hurled brick struck her side, and pain lanced through Faowri's torso, her back arching with a winded gasp. The protect spell caused the missile to bounce off her, but it couldn't make her impervious to injury. 

Again, the relative silence fell. Faowri rolled from Talis, sucking in agonised breaths against the throbbing in her ribcage. She laced curative magic into the impact site, every second wasted bearing down on her as an opportunity for being left behind, caught in the next hail, captured by whatever guards might be bringing up the rear . . . 

"Up you get!" Fersan's lilting voice startled her from such panic-inducing thoughts, his hand firmly clasping hers and jerking her to her feet. "There'll be time for rolling around crying later!" 

He left Faowri to stand unaided, quickly coaxing Talis onto his back and breaking into a run. Far behind and above them, as Faowri stumbled after them with both arms wrapped around her chest, the barked commands of the soldiers emanated through the night. 

"The supplies, who has the supplies –" Faowri gasped, and Fersan caught her by the arm, pulling her into a faster pace. 

"Davin grabbed 'em! Don't worry about it now!" 

Immediately Faowri's thoughts turned to the others, whether they were hurt or dead, or even had escaped safely by now. But she could hear Sheridan panting only just behind her, the collective pounding of the group's boots at least reassuring her that most of them had survived, even if she couldn't distinguish between any of them. 

"Should'a . . . hijacked an airship instead . . ." Fersan rasped, and the fact that he said it with all sincerity made Faowri choke back a bitter laugh. 

And then the keen came again. Faowri fell backwards this time as she intuitively turned to face the threat, sprawling alongside Fersan and Talis. A vast chasm of darkness yawned above her, filled with a screaming rain of missiles that seemed to form a screen so heavy there was no possible way of avoiding a hit. 

Just as she was about to throw up her hands over her face, the wall of arrows exploded above them in a burst of flame, and a great swathe of that menacing hail fell as stinging char, ash and ember. There were startled cries, and Faowri found her own voice joining them as she hurriedly slashed burning embers from her hair, skin and clothes. The magic had streamed from a source behind them, and Faowri quickly twisted her aching torso to face the perpetrator. 

Her limbs went weak. Standing with bulky arms stretched to the heavens, and oblivious to the smouldering ashes that had drifted onto its thick attire, was a black mage. 

_Dead. We're dead . . ._

The twin fiery discs that were the creature's eyes fixed intensely upon Faowri's horrified face, and she immediately thought she would be the first to die. But to her utter disillusion, a deep, disembodied voice rolled forth from the puppet, its intonation clear, calm and assertive. 

"I wish to travel with you." 

Shouts with a higher element of frenzy and confusion echoed from the cliff top. They were preparing another barrage. When Faowri couldn't find the voice to respond, the black mage repeated in identical pleasant tones: 

"I wish to travel with you." 

"Then bloody well join us!" Fersan exploded in disbelief, scrambling to his feet and hauling Talis back into place. His decision to postpone his confusion until they were no longer in immediate danger sparked the others to resume their frenzied retreat, and Faowri was no exception. But she brushed past the golem's heavy jacket as she staggered around him, all the more eager to keep close to her companions and away from the uncertain element. Whatever the black mage wanted would have to keep. 

She cast one glance back at it as she ran. The creature was only then lowering its arms, moving with a certain air of cheerful satisfaction. Then it turned and began to amble after the red mages, and Faowri had to avert her gaze before the overwhelming puzzle consumed her far stronger desire for safety. 

Logic and normality had apparently been turned on their heads. It was all Faowri could do to keep running. 

_Author's Note: Yeah . . . so those few pages turned into rather a lot. But this chapter is finally done and dusted! How long 'til the next one is anybody's guess XD _

xxLCxx 


	7. Purpose

A/N: This has been a long time coming ' But my summer's mostly free, so hopefully I can revive it XD

**6. Purpose**

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"_Quemadmodum gladius neminem occidit, occidentis telum est."  
"(A sword never kills anybody; it is a tool in the killer's hand)."_

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Somehow, as Faowri had torn Talis away from Katrill's body, the girl had succeeded in snaring her hat. Crimson red, its dyed leather worn at the edges and betraying its owner's age and experience, and even its crowning plume more grey than white, it was this single article that they placed atop a hastily erected fallen branch. A small fire had been ignited at its base, smouldering at the damp wood and annoyingly failing to catch; the memorial was hence depressingly non-dramatic.

No one was really particularly sure that the memorial would even be appreciated. There were no formal procedures for honouring the dead in the Red Order, but with their limited resources, the mages had seemingly cobbled together something from more burial and death traditions than could be counted in the hopes of appeasing someone. It was generic, but it was all they could think to do.

As dribbles of smoke swirled from the anti-climactic fire to merge with the predominant, paler Mist, Sheridan raised a voice that seemed devoid of emotion, or perhaps just betrayed his utter exhaustion, above the overwhelming silence.

"Katrill served the Red Order faithfully and diligently for most of her life. Her death was unfair and unnecessary, and will be submitted to our leader along with the rest of the evidence of Queen Brahne's actions."

There was no verbal response, but all eyes turned to Talis. The girl was slouched on the grass, her injured leg bound as deftly as possible considering the few remaining supplies, and her hollow gaze was fixed unblinkingly on the unimpressive memorial pillar.

A cold, Mist-choked wind rolled over the land on which they stood, and with only a brief protesting sputter, the flames died out, leaving a fizzle of dark smoke in their wake. A collective sigh escaped the congregation.

"Why does it have to burn anyway?" Machel muttered. "Let's just leave it here to remember her by."

This suggestion was met by a snort from Fersan as he huddled in his cloak against the cold of the Mist. "Some bastard'll just nick it. Oh, gods' sakes, Talis, I didn't mean to –"

"We'll take it with us," Faowri said, her exasperation at the messy procedure, and Talis' current habit of exploding into hiccupping tears at any misplaced word, as plain as day. "No one will remember her if we leave it here. Our leader will know how best to honour her memory."

What she didn't say, but was subtly implied by her continued insistence that they delay the proceedings, was that Katrill might not be the only casualty among the red mage ranks, and that there might be a lot more mass memory honouring to come. Most of the mages, save Talis, seemed to detect the hidden warning, but the strange apathy that had overcome them prevented them from commenting.

Kijo had seen it before, and it was universally known as Shock. There was not a single event this past hellish week that couldn't have contributed; even he felt an element of perpetual lightheadedness, a strange sense of distance from proceedings. Odd, for a person who had no trouble believing the greed of his own kind could cause such devastation. He supposed, deep down, he'd had his doubts about any of them managing to escape at all – and yet, Katrill's death had still come as a stark surprise.

Though not the biggest. Kijo's thoughts returned to a subject he had distinct discomfort in recalling when Eril's hand touched his arm, the mage leaning toward him with an agitated murmur.

"It's watching you again . . ."

The hairs on the back of the white mage's neck rose, but nonetheless he turned his head with a pre-emptive grimace, peering over his shoulder. Standing off in the short distance, perfectly motionless, the black mage was staring at him with blazing eyes. For the most part, bewildered by its existence, its presence, and its absence of hostility, the group had ignored it. It had simply followed in their wake, quiet and oddly thoughtful, never venturing forth another word after its impromptu request to join the party.

If anyone else had noticed its strange infatuation with Kijo, they weren't mentioning it. But Kijo felt barely a minute had passed without those glowing eyes pinned on him. He could sense them even when he couldn't see for sure if they were, which was ridiculously illogical but the black mage was eroding his rational thought simply by being there.

Kijo turned his gaze back to Eril, his lips pursed tightly in a frown. "What are we going to do about it?"

A weak smile touched the red mage's face. "You _did_ want to find it."

"_It_ found _us_. And now it won't stop staring at _me_."

"It must know you were the one who revived it. Perhaps you should talk to it."

The white mage blinked, incredulous at the suggestion. "Are you insane? I wouldn't know what to say, even if speaking to an impossibility were a logical proposition."

Eril shook his head, turning with unusual boldness to look directly at the black mage. Immediately, the golem's line of sight refocused on the red mage, those enigmatic glowing eyes burning brighter as though to indicate its attention. Kijo snatched at Eril's sleeve, furious at his provocative behaviour.

"Eril!"

"Look," the man encouraged, his thin smile seeming to grow more malicious. "You were curious before. It's not the dangerous soldier it was the night of the eidolon; if it didn't have intelligence or good intent, it wouldn't have asked us . . ."

"You don't know any of that, Eril." Kijo seethed, grinding his teeth together as he glared towards the milling red mages. "This could just be an alternate strategy. It's a puppet with . . . with _orders_ encoded into its very existence. Orders to serve Queen Brahne and assault her perceived enemies – who, need I remind you, red mages and their associates count among at the moment!"

Eril's face turned grim, paling in a way the ethereal swirls of Mist seemed only to enhance. "You didn't see them, Kijo. They were mindless and moved as one, all sharing the same purpose. The only word they spoke seemed to be the order they had been given – to 'kill'." His gaze was drawn back to the black mage, hollow in remembrance. "This one is different."

The sincerity in his tone cause Kijo to sigh, his gloved hands curling into his lap. The movement seemed to disturb Nuis, nestling against his boots, as her fluffy head raised to award him a querulous blink. Kijo gave it a pat, before decidedly sweeping her up into his arms and rising to his feet. Despite Eril's bold assurances before, the red mage regarded him with alarm, and immediately began to climb awkwardly from his grounded stretcher. His gait was still pained and stiff, and he had borrowed Kijo's staff to lean his weight against, but he seemed a little steadier on his feet and determined to accompany the white mage on the unspoken but obvious mission.

Kijo glanced back at the other red mages to see if their movements had been noticed; only Faowri seemed to be watching, an odd aura of understanding making their intent strangely clear, but as she made no protest, Kijo turned, pacing with leaden steps towards the black mage.

It watched with an edge of expectancy, its emotions otherwise hidden in that dark maw that formed its face. Its bulky body swelled intermittently with inhalations, though Kijo could only wonder at the physiology of the creature to enable such a feat. Though he knew they were being manufactured, who could have designed them? Where had such knowledge came from? How had they succeeded in tapping raw black magic and giving it some kind of sentience?

For it _was_ sentience. For all of Kijo's scepticism, there was an alertness and a level of attentiveness that didn't match the descriptions of black mage behaviour and demeanour he had thus far heard. In his arms, Nuis stiffened, her long neck flexing and her bulbous beak inclined towards the black mage as they approach. Kijo's experience had taught him to heed her instincts as her behaviour manifested them, to avoid those she screamed at and closely watch the people she took an instant liking to, but so far she was doing neither. What was her reaction to the black mage going to be?

She remained rigid as Kijo came to a halt, a few feet from the mage's tall body. Eril lumbered up behind him, the staff puncturing the moist soil and providing minimal support on such unstable ground, but the red mage seemed unwilling to find a more restful position.

For a moment, Kijo struggled to find his voice, or a question or phrase to speak with it, but he needn't have worried. Nuis took the lead, struggling briefly in his arms with a gently commanding squawk which encouraged him to lower her to the ground, her limping gait immediately propelling her towards the black mage. The golem seemed surprised, taking a slow step backwards from the oncoming yellow mass of feathers, but the chicobo only squealed her protests at the attempted retreat. If it had truly wanted to escape, it was far too slow anyway; Nuis was circling the black mage's bulk within a second, and the golem's attempt to turn around on the spot and follow her disorienting movements would have been comical, had Kijo's spine not been chilled to the core with anxiety.

The black mage came to a dizzying stop facing the pair while Nuis continued to dance about its huge feet. Its glowing eyes narrowed, their light partly consumed at top and bottom by insubstantial lids of blackness, and the resulting expression Kijo had little choice except to incredulously interpret as confused.

"What is it?"

It was the golem who spoke, its deep, strangely resounding voice coming from the dark mass of his face, but physically feeling as though it were emitted from everywhere simultaneously. Kijo touched a hand to his temple, wondrous at the phenomenon.

"A chocobo," Eril answered for him, flattening his hand and lowering it as far as he could to indicate a small area of space. "A baby one."

"Then it is not dangerous?"

Kijo almost laughed in shock. A destructive, impossible black mage, worried that a tiny chicobo might do it harm? "No, she's harmless, for the most part. She's just playing."

"Playing."

The mage turned its gaze back down to Nuis, the monotone repetition prompting Kijo and Eril to share a look of bewilderment.

"I can touch her?"

Kijo nodded, stepping back slightly as the black mage bent forward, its huge, gloved hand sweeping down in a surprisingly gentle arc to catch Nuis lightly on the head. The chicobo immediately stopped, rubbing her head feathers against the encompassing palm, and the black mage's eyes seemed to blaze even brighter in what could only be delight and intrigue. As much as he resented relying on so erratic a judge of character as a chocobo, Kijo felt himself subconsciously relax at Nuis' acceptance.

"Her name is Nuis," Eril offered, and the mage looked up again, its hand frozen in position for the chicobo to continue nuzzling it.

"Name. You have names?"

"Kijo," Kijo said immediately, and moved a hand to gesture towards his companion. "And this is Eril."

"Those are names, given to you?"

The question seemed so odd and obvious, Kijo wasn't sure how to answer. Fortunately, Eril seemed to get over the abnormality of the interrogation far quicker than he did.

"Yes, by our parents. Or at least, I presume so, in Kijo's case."

The black mage pondered this, eventually returning its burning gaze to Nuis. "The baby chocobo's parents named it as well?"

"Oh, no," Kijo said immediately, shaking his head. "Nuis is a name I gave her. She doesn't seem to have any parents, at least, none that are surviving or close by." The white mage turned, pointing off into the distance. Beyond the bridge just visible through the gloom of the Mist, an even darker mass loomed on the foggy horizon. Travelling as often as mages of both colours did, it wasn't difficult to get used to the lay of the land despite visibility being obscured by that accursed Mist. "That forest over there is a known hotspot for chocobos. I found Nuis close to it, apparently the worse for wear after a monster attack. They can be frighteningly fierce down in the depths of the Mist."

Eril was watching him in fascination, Kijo swiftly realised. True, he didn't often indulge in personal anecdotes, but interaction with the black mage was far too significant to dull by remaining distant. He continued without remark.

"She'd been injured, her leg broken. Leaving such a young chicobo in a state like that would be paramount to committing her to death, especially without the parents around. So I wove a few healing spells. The break was quite severe, however – severe enough to leave her permanently lame no matter how I healed it." Kijo shrugged, looking down at Nuis with the faint trace of a smile on his lips. "So I ended up taking her with me. Only to continue healing her to her best, of course, but after I tried to release her when she was as fit as I could make her, she continued to follow me."

It would have been an embarrassing scene, had anyone been around to watch. Kijo had stood for as long as he dared on the plains by the Qu's marshlands, arguing with a yellow ball of fluff on legs. He'd set her down, walk off a few feet, and then find her butting at his heels again within moments. For a lame chicobo, she could run fast and she was extremely persistent. Eventually he'd caved at the terribly soul-wrenching lonely looks she kept giving him everytime he tried to leave her behind; he'd leave that part out of the story, but recalling it was discomfiting enough.

The black mage seemed most intrigued by the tale, its bold eyes fixated on Kijo with what he could only interpret as awe.

"Then you saved the chicobo. Saved her life."

Kijo shifted, uncomfortable at the turn of discussion. Praise for doing his duty when his heart was rarely in it often resulted in his immediate withdrawal from conversation. "Perhaps. I'm a white mage. Healing is simply my duty."

"You help people. That is your purpose."

"In a way, I –"

But the black mage seemed taken by some notion, its large hands lifting in abject praise of Kijo. Eril seemed just as bewildered, exchanging a somewhat worried glance with the white mage – but there turned out to be little to be concerned about, even as the golem turned on the red mage with positively brimming enthusiasm.

"And you, Eril. What is your purpose?"

"I . . . well, I . . . a red mage helps to find solutions to disputes, and uses black and white magic for general assistance –"

"You use black magic to help people?" The black mage was stunned, its weight teetering back in awe so that for a moment it looked as though it might topple over. Eril continued on, stammering at the question.

"Y-yes, uh, for example, to draw water for those in need, or conjur the winds to help folk power a windmill. Often the natural world has all the solutions needed to solve –"

"Yes." The black mage's eyes burned with determination, narrowing slightly as they returned to the pair. "Yes, I see it now."

"What is it you see?"

A satisfied sigh escaped the golem. "The way forward. I did not understand, before. I could not remember having done the things I saw as I fled the city, but I knew it was myself and my fellows who had done so. Tell me . . . our purpose in the city was to destroy, was it not? We were weapons?"

Kijo hesitated, not entirely sure whether the truth would be appreciated, but that the black mage already knew the answers settled his decision for him. " . . . Yes. The current understanding is that black mages are being produced as weapons to aid Queen Brahne in her war. There seems little reason to doubt this speculation so far."

"My kind . . . our purpose is to destroy. And we have destroyed, and killed many." It turned away from Eril and Kijo, in some tangible expression of shame that made the white mage suffer a ripple of sympathy. "It may not have been our fault . . . but I cannot forgive myself for what we have been used for. I must make amends."

"Is that why you asked to come with us?"

A bob of that tall, steepled hat indicated a slow nod. "Your lives are concerned with helping and saving people. I thought I might never be useful for anything but destruction . . . but now I wish to help people as well. I want to travel with you, that I might learn from you."

Kijo shook his head, out of the black mage's sight but nonetheless averse to the idea of anything using him as a guide for helping people. How could he teach when he lacked compassion himself? And Eril, he was hardly a grand role model of a red mage right now, seething at every opportunity about his personal losses in this farcical war.

Could the black mage truly not see that there was more to doing good deeds than the actual act? Kijo felt great pity for the unwitting war machine, but to try and explain that one's motive constituted the greatest part of doing perceived 'good' would overcomplicate the creature's simplistic view. And, oddly, Kijo didn't want to spoil those elegant perceptions; people and their complications of thought and motive were a great aspect of why he hated them so much. That the black mage could so easily draw a line between good and evil was wondrously refreshing.

Hmph. A sociopathic white mage, a red mage no longer able to maintain his neutrality, and a black mage wanting to become a grand do-gooder. What other colours might be inversed if they continued as they did?

He smiled at the irony, prompting a puzzled look from the rapidly tiring Eril, but Kijo felt no inclination to explain. Instead, he directed a question at the black mage.

"Do you have a name?"

The golem turned slowly, its . . . _his_ movements deliberate and precise, like a gentle giant. He seemed surprised by the query. "I do not. But, I have this." He lifted both large hands, tugging open the thick sleeve of his mage clothing to show his two listeners. Imprinted in the thick leather on the clothing's interior was the label: _No. 83._

A production number. Kijo's brow furrowed as he peered up into the black mage's intimidating face. "Surely you would prefer to adopt a _real_ name? One a bit more personal?"

"If parents give names, then I will abide by the one given to me by _my_ creator." He smoothed down his sleeve, exhaling another sigh of such long-suffering that once again, Kijo felt a burst of sympathy for this helplessly abused creation of man. "And I do not wish to forget my origins. They will inspire me to work hard to atone."

Eril shifted all of his weight to the staff, extending a hand towards the black mage with a grim smile. "Very well, then, Eighty-Three. Welcome to our little escape party."

Eighty-Three paused, frozen for a moment, before tentatively clasping the red mage's hand and giving it a firm, solid shake. " . . . I am grateful beyond words for your acceptance. I will do my best to ensure I do not let you down."

Deciding it best to do his job right then, Kijo excused himself and Eril, ushering the wilting mage back to his stretcher. With Eighty-Three, he left Nuis, because his guilty conscience was telling him already that the black mage owed the people he had pledged to help _nothing_. His sins were not his own to atone for, and now he had befriended flawed examples of some of the truly reliable professions in the world.

If anyone ended up let down, Kijo thought with a sad sigh, he rather though it might be Eighty-Three.

The group could afford to waste no time, and so the break after Katrill's ceremony was exceptionally brief. Travel in the mist-clogged dark was difficult, but they moved by torch fire after a quick search to unearth appropriate lengths of wood. The red mages were on hand to do the lighting – although Eighty-Three was determined to do his part. The others were at first distrustful of letting him use any magic at all around them, and even Eril had to look away as the sight of him burning things brought back horrendous memories of that night in the Industrial District. But he had pledged his acceptance of Eighty-Three, and did his best to argue in the black mage's favour.

Sheridan's intended route would take them all the way to South Gate. Eril entertained a mild concern that travel on Burkmea might be difficult to acquire with all the trouble going on, especially as they were toting a black mage among their party. But Faowri assured him that she would handle any difficulties when they came to them; for now, all that mattered was that they got as far away from Alexandrian-run Lindblum as possible and out of the godsforsaken Mist.

Though Eril complained, mostly for the sake of not wanting to appear a willing burden, Kijo quite forcibly wouldn't let him walk at all, not even for short lengths. He was tired of being incapable and injured; when would he feel well again? With the continued ache in his limbs and torso, Eril began to worry that he might never recover. True, it had only been a few days, but the hours had stretched to such interminable periods of time that it seemed he had never felt well.

And it felt like forever since he had last seen Cera.

He tried so hard not to think about her; he wanted to wait until they were safe and not desperate to reach a civilisation that didn't want to kill them. But his heart ached with desperation – was he leaving her behind? Had Faowri simply missed her in Lindblum? If he was moving closer, what state would she be in if . . . _when_ he found her? Because he would – as soon as he was well enough to walk, there was little doubt what his next move would be. Alexandria required a visit.

He didn't care what the Red Order thought of such a move. If he couldn't do it with their backing, he would resign from the Order and go anyway. He had to find Cera and the other red mages 'removed' from Lindblum, and if he ended up stuck with them, then . . . well. At least he'd be with Cera.

On the brink of sleep in the swaying stretcher, he conjured up dreamy visions of ending up safe and well with her, trapped in the Alexandrian castle, and putting together their oft-used wits to draw up a plan of escape. Of course, they would goad each other, and compete as they did it, but that was all part of the fun. All part of the teamwork . . .

"Guys . . . guys, hold up a second. I need a breather."

Eril blinked awake, sitting up awkwardly in his stretcher. They had reached the bridge, the water rushing beneath sounding ominous since it was far too dark to actually see beyond the edges of the arch. Behind him, Fersan's ragged breaths were only slightly louder than those of the rest of the group – Mist made even the smallest exertions tiring, and they had not exactly had an easy night.

"What's wrong, Fersan?" Faowri's voice rose from the gloom.

A weak laugh escaped the Trenoan. "Heh, Talis is not particularly heavy, but I am knackered. Anyone else feel like carting her a little ways so I can get my stride back?"

"I will do it."

The strange tones of the black mage struck silence into the group, his offer not immediately attaining an answer. Eril glanced beyond the torches in his immediate vicinity towards the particularly fierce flame held by Eighty-Three, although it wasn't much needed – his eyes blazed in his head as strongly as any torch. From what Eril could see of him, he seemed unaffected by the journey, his huge body's inhalations and exhalations showing little sign of the exhaustion that plagued the rest of the party.

He could understand their hesitance. Despite Kijo and himself assuring the red mages that there seemed to be little to fear from the reformed golem, they had remained wary; and why not? They were only human.

Eighty-Three looked around at the group, finding his eye contact most often evaded. " . . . I only wish to help."

Fersan sighed, lifting his piggy-back carried burden and stepping wearily past the stretcher towards the black mage. "What the hell. You can take her; my back would be grateful."

"Wait, I'm not sure this is a good idea," Sheridan interjected, and then shot an apologetic look at Eighty-Three. "Don't misunderstand me; I'm just worried Talis . . . well, she's in a fragile state of mind right now . . ."

And being carried by a black mage would probably scare her out of her wits – a fair point, Eril thought grimly. But the black mage was large and strong, and right now, harmless. He was the best option.

"She's totally out of it, Sheridan. Out cold. Exhausted herself crying and still in shock," Fersan said in dismissal. "Our black mage friend here will be able to give her a more comfortable ride, too, I expect."

Sheridan exhaled. "All right. Thank you, Eighty-Three. Let's keep moving."

The stretcher started moving again, and Eril sank back into it, watching with great interest as Fersan turned to allow Eighty-Three to remove the motionless girl at his back. The black mage took her with gentle hands; Talis was a skinny wretch by all counts, and he was able to scoop her into the crook of one arm while still grasping his torch. Fersan was grumbling and stretching out his back when stretcher passed him, so Eril was able to give Eighty-Three an encouraging smile and nod without the interaction being noticed.

He nodded gratefully in return, genuine delight at the responsibility and praise lighting his glowing eyes even further as he turned to continue moving with the rest of the party. There was some part of the black mage so hungry for acceptance and the opportunity to help that it made Eril ache somewhere deep inside to recognise it. He would never be able to forget that devastating night in Lindblum – but Eighty-Three was a far cry from the mindless, soulless demons he and Cera had briefly fought against. And, of course, the true demons had not been the black mages at all.

Eril clasped a hand against Cera's glasses, the angular item pushing against his shirt pocket from within; he might not be able to teach much to the black mage about neutrality in his present state, but he would certainly reinforce his sense of justice.

As their dwindling luck would have it, Talis chose the most inconvenient moment to wake up and find herself in the arms of a black mage.

They had taken the route from the bottom of the Mist, passing through the mountain tunnel to reach the entrance to the bottom of South Gate. Faowri had little concern that, even with a black mage in their company, she wouldn't be able to talk their way through, but she was so tired that she would prefer to avoid the encounter if at all possible. She hadn't slept at all, not even during their brief stopover near Chocobo's Forest. Too many thoughts and worries floating around in her head, and some vague paranoia that the Alexandrians might be creeping up behind them. It was the Mist, of course – it often did these things to travellers. There was something so very unwholesome about it; if monsters could thrive in it, that spoke a great deal of the kind of mentalities it could produce.

Now, emerging from the mountain at the iron gate, where they had to yell at a snoozing engineer to move so they could open it, they were above the Mist, and the sun blazed. It was approaching midday, according to her pocket watch, but they had at least another half-day to go before they could reach Treno, possibly longer if they reached the Bermea cable cars in bad timing, while the one they needed was up at the half-way station. Effective, they were, but their speed could do with improving.

She and Kijo entered the area near the shop first, carrying Eril in his stretcher. A few of the workers whispered at the sight of a black mage among them, but as they drew close to the Bermea map, Faowri honestly thought they might have gotten away with it.

And then the sharp sunlight woke Talis. The girl looked up into the glowing eyes of Eighty-Three, inhaled a deep lungful of air, and screamed before Sheridan's sudden lunge toward her could prevent it. Immediately, all eyes were on the party, and immediately, everyone defensively bunched together as those nearest to Talis attempted to stop her flailing and shrieking.

Faowri sighed, forced to drag her mind out of its exhausted quagmire. Eighty-Three was fighting weakly against Talis' frenzied thrashing, not willing to simply drop his injured burden to the dirt, but not quite sure how to handle such violence otherwise. His expression, as far as it could be determined from his limited face, was one of frightened bewilderment.

As her hysterical wailing reached its peak, Sheridan swept a hand over her eyes and muttered something under his breath. Talis sagged, so abruptly limp that the black mage almost dropped her in surprise, and Sheridan's efforts were quickly recombined to grab her before she could fall.

"It was just a sleep spell," Sheridan reassured the disoriented black mage. "She's –"

"_Halt_! What's going on here?"

Oh, no . . . Well, it was only a matter of time, Faowri sighed, quickly stepping towards Sheridan as the Lindblum guards scurried in his direction. It would probably look like Sheridan was fighting Eighty-Three for the girl . . .

"Guards, please, lower your damn staffs," Fersan scowled, but swiftly shut up when he had one swung in close proximity to his face. The guards were not regarding the black mage very positively – if both were from the ravaged Lindblum, then there was really little surprise, but they didn't have time for this.

Faowri pushed one pointing staff aside, her expression merciless. If she looked anywhere near as bad as she felt, they wouldn't be quick to ignore her warnings.

"Please, gentlemen, this is a misunderstanding."

"What's that . . . that _thing_ doing with you?" the shorter man hissed, scorn and hatred dripping from each word.

She had a feeling Eighty-Three would not like her tactic, but Faowri had to do something to free them from such negative attention. Bermea was sitting at the station, waiting for its next lot of passengers, and she had never wanted to be home quite so badly as now.

"It's a black mage," she said calmly. "We stole it from the Alexandrian forces in Lindblum. It's quite harmless at the moment, but we're taking it for further investigation." She turned, gesturing with a wave of her hand to her exhausted party. "We've been assigned the task of finding out more about Brahne's weaponry by Regent Cid himself."

The staves didn't lower, and the guards looked nervously at each other. "Why's it carrying a girl? Why haven't we heard anything about this?"

"The Regent didn't deem it wise to have such information floating about in reach of the Alexandrians."

"They've already been interfering with moogle mail," Fersan added, eyebrows raised. "And he's just carrying the girl 'cause we needed the extra set of hands. We ordered him to." The bold man gave the black mage a slap on the shoulder, as though he were patting a mule for its useful, loyal service. To his credit, Eighty-Three remained blank and speechless, for which Faowri was immensely relieved and grateful.

She continued while they had their attention. "As you can see, our party only escaped from Lindblum with it by a hair's breadth and no shortage of casualties. We are exceedingly worn and tired, and would appreciate it if you would let us pass."

The shorter of the guards leaned toward her, eyes narrowed. "What's your name, Miss?"

"Lady Faowri King of Treno," Faowri replied, with no shortage of dignity. She didn't often pull rank, but in some cases it had beneficial results.

The tall guard gave his companion a sharp elbow to the ribs, immediately bowing in apology. "I'm terribly sorry, Lady King. I thought you looked familiar . . . we shan't trouble you any further. Please, have a pleasant journey on the cable car."

She thanked them, remaining where she was until they had retreated back into the gate area, returning to their posts and out of sight. As one, the group exhaled. A glance around confirmed that the shopkeeper had been watching, so without turning to show him who she was speaking to, Faowri mumbled her apology to Eighty-Three.

"I'm sorry about that. I know you must not appreciate the bluff, but I couldn't think how else to get us past."

"If it was necessity," Eighty-Three said quietly, "then I cannot complain. This is the burden my kind must suffer."

He reasserted his grip on the slumbering Talis, and began to plod up the path to the cable car. Faowri pinched her temples between thumb and forefinger; she didn't know how the black mage had so changed, or why, but his sincerity was undeniable. Unfortunately, that only made the guilt of what _her_ kind had used him for even stronger. Brahne wasn't just playing any god – she was playing a god of abject destruction and cruelty.

"Machel," Sheridan said off to her side. She heard the tinkle of gil as her mentor passed funds to the still-sulking mage. "Do me a favour and restock our supplies from the shop. I think we may yet need more nourishment and assistance on the way to Treno and I wouldn't like to be caught short-handed."

Machel skulked off, muttering about how they were probably going to drive off without him, an idea that hadn't occurred to Faowri but one she immediately relished in her darker heart. However, her mentor distracted her with a compassionate hand to her shoulder, drawing her after the others as they made their way into the cable car.

"Come, Faowri. We're very close now."

"I think I shall sleep heavily on Berkmea," she groaned, scraping back her bedraggled white hair from her face. "And I demand a bath as soon as I get home."

He smiled, shaking his head in amusement at her order of priorities. "It might be your bath, but I think you'll still be fighting for it if you let us all stay."

"Fighting you, even?"

Sheridan's smirk was quiet and modest; you had to be very swift and observant to catch his sense of humour, and Faowri always felt so privileged to spy it.

"Perhaps," he said, gesturing at his dust and filth-clogged clothing. "Even I have my limits, Faowri."


	8. Resolve

**A/N:**_Hoshiz, over a year since updating. I'm sorry to anyone who was waiting on updates TT A lot of stuff happened and very little of it was good._

_I SWEAR I will finish this monster. Watch me. I'm enthused as we're setting up for the ending now._

**7: Resolve**

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"_Yesterday I dared to struggle. Today I dare to win." – Bernadette Devlin_

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"Hello?"

The whisper reverberated around the darkened hallway, at odds with the perpetual burble of ordinary, everyday life that bubbled from the city behind them. Sheridan watched suspiciously as a visibly weary Faowri advanced across the marble, genuine panic in her eyes at the apparent desertion of her extravagant home. Not even lights from the vibrant city itself seemed to penetrate far into the gloom from the windows, or the open entrance door where the numb and exhausted group of mages silently awaited approval to enter.

Faowri endured the silence for only a moment longer, eventually turning back to the door and beckoning her companions inside. Fersan entered first, eyeing the décor with an appreciative whistle.

"Lived in Treno all my life," he said grandly, "but never seen the King manor. Nice place you have, Lady King."

She shot him a dire look, planting a hand on her hip in half-hearted annoyance. "Faowri, _please_. I think we have endured enough together that you can skip the formalities."

Besides which, she had skipped over many of her rights to being treated entirely like the noble she was when she had taken up her position as a red mage, Sheridan thought privately. It had been a conflicted decision for her, he remembered, torn between her father's wishes and her own. As he understood it, Faowri had eventually reached a compromise, signing over half of her inheritance to another person to manage the King fortune, assets and businesses in partnership. She had always seemed reluctant to discuss this other person, however . . .

A glow appeared at the top of the staircase; lamplight, held aloft by a familiar servant who made startled haste to the ground floor.

"Lady Faowri!"

Faowri released a perceptible sigh of relief at the sign of life, sweeping off her hat as though she could finally relax in her own home. "Manchi, it is good to see you. I'm afraid the Lindblum mission did not go well. My companions and I require rooms prepared, medical aid, immediate sustenance . . ."

She trailed off as Manchi reached the bottom step and froze, his wide eyes turned toward the largest figure entering through the doorway only briefly before darting back to Faowri in the clear hopes she would confirm the presence of a black mage was entirely _okay_.

Apparently she was growing rather tired of the reaction, as she released a second sigh and nodded. "It's fine. He's with us. Please, rouse the other servants and do as I ask. Run the hot water as well, if you could." Sheridan caught her sly look over the shoulder, awarding her a brief smile for the reference to their earlier discussion. "We'll wait in the main sitting room. Be as quick as you can. Oh!"

Faowri had been in the process of leaving Manchi to it, but snapped back with sudden vigour and seized his arm in urgent appeal. Sheridan didn't catch her whispered question, but her disappointment as the servant shook his head in response was plain enough. He would ask her about it later; for now, there were more important issues to address.

It was late in the evening, but the speed at which Faowri's host of servants roused themselves and began to fulfil her requests was impressive. The mages filed into the expansive sitting room, where there were comfortable seats aplenty and no one was left standing, save Eighty-Three who seemed reluctant to sit for some reason and instead wandered up and down the perimeter of the room, eyeing up the expensive ornaments and polished furniture. Fersan had time to issue a few wisecracks about Faowri's extravagant home and evident riches before promptly dozing off in his seat, a pattern generally followed by a number of the party so that, fifteen minutes later, when a gaggle of servants scurried in to deposit trays of nourishing food and drink on the low coffee table, few of the guests were in a fit state to eat any of it.

Sheridan could feel his eyes threatening to close, but forced them to remain open, feeling rather too tired to eat but taking up a warm half-loaf anyway. Between mouthfuls, he addressed the remaining wakeful mages – consisting only of an anxious Faowri, Kijo, who was eagerly cramming food into both his own mouth and Nuis', and an ever neurotic Machel who gingerly picked at the offerings as though afraid at any moment he might be told he wasn't allowed to join in.

"We need rest primarily," Sheridan began quietly. "But it's important to consider where we go from here. I sent a message to our leader through the moogle at Berkmea, but it's probably a good idea to predict what kind of action we'll be expected to take."

"Perhaps nothing," Faowri offered, wearily resting her cheek against her palm. "This is so severe, the leader of the Order may wish to take things into his own hands."

"But given Brahne's behaviour, I don't think his position will grant him immunity from her ill temper." Swallowing his current mouthful of pastry, Kijo suspended a piece for the chicobo to snatch before continuing. "In which case, there's really no need for him to come especially. In fact, if Her Majesty is confronted and simply tosses the mages who visit her in the cells with the rest of them, it would be better if he _didn't_ go so that more extreme action can be taken afterwards under the direct authority of the Order leader."

"_Extreme_ action, Kijo?" Sheridan raised an eyebrow at the white mage, who gave a wan smile in response.

"Have you not considered it, or thought beyond us simply voicing our complaints? The woman is mad. Reasoning with her will not produce any results. I have already thought about it, and I think in the end, she will have to be stopped by force."

Faowri huffed in disgust. "More war to counter war. A horrible idea. And what of the Red Order's neutrality? It would be compromised forever if we were to take a side!"

The white mage shrugged, leaning back in his seat and complacently closing his eyes. "Messy, I know. But it would be, in my opinion, less taking a side and more defending your own right to exist. This is not some petty farmer dispute. This is a war, of a scale I think none of us have really absorbed yet. Consider it; Burmecia, Cleyra and Lindblum are all fallen. The Mist Continent is effectively under the sole rule of Queen Brahne and the Alexandrian forces. We can't hide our heads in the sand and hope it goes away."

Mage Orders probably constituted the largest organised, cohesive and impartial groups on the continent. Sheridan wondered if it hadn't been Brahne's plan from the beginning to force them into such a corner, and diminish any threat they might hold. After all, if they joined the inevitable resistance . . .

He shook his head, a nagging ache building at his temples. Only sheer exhaustion would allow Sheridan to sleep tonight; though they had escaped and were free, it was a temporary respite only and thoughts of events yet to come broiled turbulently in his head.

"We can't take the violent route without first trying the civil route," he voiced staunchly, curling his gloved hand into a fist against his knee. "I firmly believe that. But I agree with the leader not being the one to try it. He is simply too important to risk at this juncture. Do you remember, Kijo, you suggested we group the Orders together and voice one collaborated complaint?"

Cracking his eyes open, Kijo nodded. "You want me to go? I would go. A letter in hand from the White leader and I'd be set. A request should be sent tonight if we're to move quickly. You would simply have to select a suitable red mage to play that representative."

Kijo seemed . . . well, perhaps _enthused_ would be the wrong word. Determined, or full of resolve. It was clear to Sheridan that he had anticipated this very course of action and already set himself up for it even before they had left Lindblum, perhaps at that very first, cramped meeting in Eril's temporary shelter. Tomorrow, he would have to query the other mages, see who would be interested in volunteering.

Sheridan found his gaze roaming the party, settling on each in turn. Faowri? She gazed off at the freshly-lit fire, her eyes dull with weariness. After some rest, though, she would be a strong candidate. Next to her was Fersan, the rough diamond, stout of heart – he would undoubtedly volunteer, but there was more to this role than simply picking the most eager. The Trenoan lacked the necessary tact and diplomacy to file a formal issue with Brahne's actions. Sheridan grimaced, but felt he would have to decline him. Machel, fidgeting to his left on the long sofa, wasn't even a consideration, though the cowardly creature would never volunteer himself in a million years. Taking up the rest of that seat was a sprawled Talis, still out cold and pale as death; Sheridan worried for her state of mind as well as her health, and would never permit her to go though she was unlikely to volunteer herself for the task.

Davin was perched as though awake on the edge of Sheridan's couch, but his closed eyes and rhythmic breathing spoke otherwise. He wasn't sure what to make of the Burmecian's feelings; he had been quiet throughout their little exodus, and Sheridan suspected that the feelings he had bottled away inside himself at Burmecia's fall would all too easily explode to the surface if the dragoon were to come face to face with the person who had directed the murder of countless numbers of his people. Eril, sitting in an armchair alone . . . Sheridan found he couldn't make a decision about him yet, though his injuries would certainly hold him back.

There was, of course, himself. Sheridan was probably a very good candidate; older, mature, able to view the events with a little more emotional distance than some of the others. But was he the best choice? And did he want to remove that distance, stop observing and step directly into the fray?

"May I ask a question?"

The resonant voice rose from Eighty-Three, the gleaming discs of his eyes catching the firelight and giving him an almost malevolent appearance. Sheridan couldn't help but shudder, rubbing his arms to make it seem as though the reaction were only part of his tiredness, and nodded at the black mage.

"There is no Order for black mages," he intoned, every word slow and heavy with consideration. "But my kind have been misused in this war, constructed for ill deeds."

Sheridan could almost sense what was coming, his eyes riveted to Eighty-Three.

"I would like to visit the Queen as a representative of the black mages, to try and prevent further misuse." The mage's glowing eyes narrowed with regret, his broad shoulders slumping. "I do not wish for us to be used as weapons of destruction. I am willing to voice this and lend weight to the two existing Orders."

"White, red, black," Kijo responded, ticking off the three points on his fingers. "A concerted effort. I think it's a good idea."

Eighty-Three brightened immediately at the encouragement, nodding so energetically his hat wobbled on his head. "You think it will work?"

A wistful smile beset Kijo's face, and the white mage shook his head. "I don't know. I think Brahne is beyond listening. But this step has to be made if we're going to progress. It could be dangerous. Are you sure you don't want to vanish, enjoy your new freedom, Eighty-Three?"

The mage curled his huge hands over the back of Eril's chair. "No. Even if there were real freedom, which the journey here has not illustrated for me, I could not take it. It is not my purpose to be free, but to set things right that are in my power to do so. My fellows are not able . . . I have to do it."

Reactions to Eighty-Three so far had probably not encouraged him. Sheridan nodded, slowly at first, but gradually gaining more enthusiasm for the idea. "All right. Kijo, Eighty-Three, and one as yet unchosen red mage. We can -"

A knock sounded against one of the doors to the sitting room before it cautiously swung open, Manchi's uncertain face peering around it.

"The guest rooms are prepared, and a bath has been run, Lady Faowri."

Faowri waved a hand in recognition and expelled a grateful sigh. "All right, thank you. I'll nudge everyone awake and get them to move. Sheridan, are you going to rest?"

Her mentor shook his head, lips pursed.

"Please have your servants fetch me writing equipment, and the nearest moogle." Sheridan rubbed his aching temples, blinking furiously in an attempt to wake himself up. "It would seem I have a few letters to write first."

She regarded him with sympathy, but the expression rapidly altered to one of weary amusement.

"I suppose that means the first bath is mine."

------

Soft covers, an expensive mountain of feather pillows and an enormous queen-sized mattress were not what Eril expected as he opened his eyes, yet again finding himself in a strange bed with absolutely no recollection of getting there. That it was probably the most comfortable bed he'd ever slept in, the mattress like curving silk against his back, told him they had at least made it to Treno. Faowri was someone important here, so it wasn't unusual she would have the best of the best . . .

Eril waited as his mind played catch-up, his eyes scouring the luxurious guest room for any sign of a vigilant onlooker. It was empty, however, of all but him, which suggested he was stable enough to be left alone now. He tentatively shifted his shoulder, wincing as the ache there intensified, though it was still notably duller than before, and the continuous heavy pressure in his chest seemed not to be so strong. Perhaps he was just feeling optimistic, now that they were free of Lindblum. Either way, he felt better. If they gave him a cane or a crutch, he might even be able to walk for longer periods without assistance.

Of course, it was unlikely that Eril's recovery was a _primary_ concern right now, while Brahne was still at large. Somewhat bitterly, he wondered if the others were already up, discussing an action strategy, excluding him from proceedings because he was still injured. But that was perhaps a little unfair of him; after all, so far, he had been diligently included in everything else. The mage glanced around for a clock; there was a little ornate one set on the dressing table, its hands pinning the day at an hour or so before noon.

Inhaling a deep breath, Eril slowly urged himself upright, the mattress protesting and apparently trying to swallow him back up, but with only minor difficulty he succeeded. He had to push aside four different layers of a complicated blanket system before he could even see his legs, but the mage at least found he wasn't breathless afterward.

Someone had stuffed him into another new nightgown apparently, this time designed to a noble's tastes. It had regal frills. Eril blinked down at it in dismay; Cera would almost certainly be rolling on the floor in a laughing fit had she been able to see him. A sad sigh escaped him, the wish to hear that laugh like a burning ache inside of him. Eril disconsolately began the arduous long journey to the edge of the bed.

He didn't fall over immediately as he stood up, which was encouraging. The mage spied a more masculine dressing gown hanging from the back of the guest room's door and made his slow, tentative way over to it, carefully measuring his stride and keeping ramrod straight. The dressing gown definitely did the trick of hiding the monstrosity beneath it, and Eril exhaled a mild sigh of relief, reaching for the door handle.

His stomach was roaring like blazes, and as he stepped stiffly into the corridor outside, the smell of something cooking wafted past him and made the pangs a little fiercer. The journey here had been strictly rationed, especially considering they'd had to leave some of their limited provisions behind after the fiasco in the elevator. Eril looked forward to a substantial meal.

It was all a distraction, of course. He realised that as he emerged onto a broad first floor landing that seemed to open out into the main entrance hall he vaguely recalled from last night. A distraction from what he would have to do next, where he would go, how he would find and rescue Cera. All thoughts of her being already dead had already left his mind, leaving that sole fixation of her being imprisoned in Alexandria as an unmoveable anchor. But for now, a strange peace had descended over him, dispelling most of his anxiety. It was surreal, perhaps the result of their temporary and intermediate success . . .

But it hadn't really been a success. Katrill had died, Genner was taken, and Lindblum was still devastated by the invasion. One small step at a time, though . . . just one at a time –

"Eril."

The mage paused with his hand curled over the banister, about to attempt the descent on his own, when Sheridan's soft call reached him from back down the corridor. He turned to the older mage, using the railings for support as he waited on his approach. Sheridan had apparently just had a bath, his white hair damp and an identical dressing gown on him, too. Eril had to suppress a smile as he wondered if the older mage was hiding an equally embarrassing gown with the garment.

"Morning, Sheridan. Am I last up?"

"One of the first, actually. Are you all right?" Sheridan offered his arm when he reached him, and Eril accepted it without question, grateful of the extra safety in descending the stairs.

"I think so. I could wish to be better, but beggars can't be choosers. Has there been any progress?"

Sheridan pulled a worried face. "To a degree. It has essentially been decided that three of us will travel to Alexandria to meet with the Queen and voice our grievances."

The peace was fleeing already. Eril swallowed, faltering at the bottom of the stairs. A myriad concerns fought for his attention all at once, and Sheridan waited with patience until he had decided which to go with first.

"Who is going?"

A fleeting smile touched the older mage's lips; apparently he'd expected that one.

"Kijo, and Eighty-Three. The final party member has yet to be decided."

Kijo was no surprise, but Eighty-Three? Well, of course. He had a personal stake in Brahne's behaviour, too. If Eril was understanding the party structure correctly, the final member would be a red mage even if there had been anyone else to attend. But this was an official visit, and though Eril intended to travel to Alexandria either way, he didn't believe for a second he would be Sheridan's first choice. Injured, 'obsessed' with Cera . . .

Sheridan angled him towards the dining room where the smells of breakfast were strongest – or was it lunch? Only Faowri and Davin occupied the enormous table, which was already mounted with a variety of warm, well-prepared foods Eril was instantly eager to consume. Eighty-Three stood quietly in the corner of the room, observing, and refusing invitations to join them. Eril gave half-hearted responses to Faowri's questions of his wellbeing, more interested in claiming his seat and filling his plate to the brim.

She laughed at his behaviour, convinced that his outrageous appetite placed him firmly on the path of a speedy recovery.

Off-topic conversation drifted between the few members of the table, occasionally reverting back to welcomes and questions of health as other mages trickled in. Eril focused on eating, stopping only to chuckle at Fersan's muttered "Blimey!" at the array of luxurious breakfasts presented. Food first, satiate his hunger, strengthen himself, then he could compose his thoughts and figure out how to convince Sheridan that he should be the third member of the party.

Who would the other candidates be? Sheridan himself, probably, but as a good leader he couldn't simply assign himself to the task without any input. Faowri, then; he clearly thought a lot of her. Davin? The Burmecian had taken a seat mere moments ago, still quiet and withdrawn as ever. If he couldn't speak to his fellows, it was unlikely he'd be able to speak to Brahne . . .

"I think those of us who are present are all who need to be," Sheridan said suddenly after Machel, most recent arrival, took his seat and secured his plate.

"What about Talis?" Machel blinked.

"Talis is injured, exhausted, and in shock. She needs rest and care more than inclusion. As I said, I think we are complete enough."

A number of mages set down their cutlery, giving Sheridan their full attention. Having heard this summary of decisions made already, Eril continued to clean off his plate at speed, laying down his knife and wiping his mouth with just seconds to spare before Sheridan announced: "Any volunteers?"

"I -" he said instantly, but the utterance collided with those of Fersan and Faowri. Sheridan laughed, nodding his head as though he'd expected nothing less.

"So at least it's not a hopeless cause," he smiled. "I am also willing to go myself if need be. We need to decide who is to go, then."

A chuckle erupted from Fersan, who held up both hands in defeat. "I'm outmatched here. You three are all much better at the diplomacy skit than me." He pressed a hand flat to his chest and performed a little uncharacteristic bow in his seat. "I'll respectfully unvolunteer myself. Though I'd love to go give Brahne what-for, that's not what this venture is about, is it?"

Sheridan pressed his hands together and gave Fersan a grateful and respectful nod of his head. "Thank you, Fersan. Now, Faowri, are you certain it's a good idea for you to leave Treno again so soon? Your partner, is he active?"

The woman frowned, swirling a finger around the edge of her teacup. "Active, but presently absent, if it's possible to be both. I believe I could take another trip."

"But, you know, Faowri, Lady King," Fersan interjected with a grin. "Whoever goes has to be prepared to not come back, at least for a while. And I don't mean because the journey might take a long time – I mean because Brahne might be inclined to shoot the messenger. You're a big shot around here, and I think the remaining little cities need to keep hold of their big shots in case this fails and Brahne invades again."

A silence descended over the table. Eril blinked at the rough-edged, easy-going mage, wondering if he was flirting with Faowri or simply being honest; it wasn't as though Treno was actually _ruled_ by anyone. It was just sort of dominated by a number of prominent nobles, one of which happened to be Faowri's family name. Nonetheless, his point about shooting the messenger was valid. Eril seized it, clenching his hands loosely into fists on the table.

"Sheridan, I also worry it's more important for you to be here and well if things continue to go wrong and further action is needed. You're a good leader and will be able to organise things, and I think the person who takes the third spot needs to be somewhat expendable."

The man's face contorted in a worried frown. "You're not expendable, Eril . . ."

"That's kind of you, but compared to you and Faowri, I am. I know you're worried about my health, and about my determination to find Cera, but I would go to Alexandria anyway. I have to." Eril glanced up, his gaze full of grit and sincerity. "I would prefer to go in an official capacity, with Kijo and Eighty-Three, and make a proper difference. I'm not just thinking of Cera. This has to be resolved. I want to go."

Sheridan regarded him levelly, no further sympathy in his gaze but a plain, scrutinising look. After a long moment, he spoke again. "And you think your injuries will not hinder you? That you'll be able to stay calm and formal as you issue the complaint?"

Eril had many things he wanted to say to Queen Brahne, and none of them were good. But on the other hand . . .

"I can restrain myself," he said carefully, "if it betters our chances of success as a whole, and subsequently my chances of finding Cera."

"And your injuries?"

"Will heal." Eril shot a vaguely amused look at his potential white mage companion. "Kijo will take care of me."

Kijo's expression remained blank and disinterested, but Eril knew he could rely on the mage. A certain life saving incident was owed, even if he didn't want to do it out of the goodness of his heart.

"All right." Sheridan placed both hands down on the table, glancing across the occupants of the table. "Any complaints about Eril filling the last slot? No? Then it's settled. I think it would be dangerous for too many red mages to visit Alexandria, but I have contacts there. I will be able to remain advised of the situation and determine your success."

Eril nodded, permitting a long sigh of relief to escape him. Though he had signed up for a venture which could potentially be the end of him, a pressure had been lifted.

The next step had been planned; now he just had to take it.

------

Faowri chewed on her thumbnail as she regarded the trio, anxiety gnawing at her innards. She stood with them in the main hall, stationary as her milling servants ensured they were nothing short of being prepared for anything, but still she couldn't repress her concern for the trip in general.

The white mage had been resigned to this necessity for a long time; that much was obvious. His stony expression betrayed no worry, no fear that it might be a suicidal mission. And in all honesty, Faowri felt they would achieve very little from it. After all, if Brahne could be swayed by strong words and a few complaining protests, she would have surely been stopped by now altogether.

But it was a necessity. Procedure, almost. Messengers needed to be sent. Grievances had to be declared. When people acted on their grievances without such notification, Burmecia and Lindblum were good examples of the results. Perhaps it was a more effective method of conquering nations, but the Orders did not want to conquer nations.

Eighty-Three seemed to be assuming Eril's share of bag-carrying. The black mage appeared almost eager to go, desperate to take action. Faowri wasn't sure how much difficulty he'd have travelling – after all, they needed only to cross over to Dali and then they were in Alexandria proper, where any number of convincing bluffs could be pulled by Kijo and Eril regarding how they had found him and where they were taking him. Humiliating on Eighty-Three's part, but the mage had indicated he was prepared to suffer such indignity where necessary.

No, it was Eril she was most concerned about. The red mage was garbed in professional gear again, feathered hat and cloak and all. His injured shoulder was still bound up in a sling for now, but the man stood rigidly tall, his breathing steady and his jaw grimly set. He was as set on this as Kijo or Eighty-Three, perhaps more so. But you couldn't care for a patient for so long, under such trying circumstances, and not develop a sort of bond with them. Faowri fervently hoped he found his partner, in good condition. The red mages as a whole deserved some good luck following the Lindblum nightmare.

"I really wish you had considered staying another night," she said to him, moving closer as soon as she had a clear path that wasn't obscured by scurrying servants. "You're not at your best . . ."

"There isn't any time, Faowri. I'm sorry." He pulled a regretful face, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. "Thank you for all your care, and for helping me try to find her. If you are ever in need of a favour, I owe you many."

She frowned, raising a finger but stopping short of cruelly poking him in the ribs. "Just make sure nothing happens to you, then, or you'll not be able to repay them, will you?"

Eril lifted his hat with a sad, courteous smile, not quite in the condition for a full bow but suggesting one anyway. Sheridan, who stood by her side, brandished a single, neatly-rolled scroll and extended it to him.

"Came not long ago," he said. "The Red Order's formal grievances. The White leader is a little further away, but I'll redirect the moogle to chase you with it when it gets here. Don't open them until you arrive; it's bad luck to break the seal before then, you know." Turning toward Eighty-Three, Sheridan wore a faintly apologetic expression. "I'm not sure how you wish to present your own grievances, my friend . . ."

Eighty-Three's body language was suggestive of a smile, about the best a faceless black mage could manage. From within his dark violet robes, he withdrew a rolled piece of parchment, which upon unrolling appeared to be mysteriously devoid of writing.

"I will write my own. I asked Kijo. He said he would help me."

The white mage glanced away, apparently embarrassed to be seen doing anything vaguely charitable that wasn't related to his profession. Faowri smiled, nodding her approval.

"That sounds like a good idea."

"Remember," Sheridan advised, hand upraised for attention. "All you have to do is read it and ask what action Alexandria will be taking in response. Take note of what they say, and then leave and send a message back. I _know_ you'll be eager to find Cera and the other mages, but you mustn't be rash or this stage is a waste of time."

"That's what happens if we _aren't_ beheaded the moment we walk in, hmm?" Eril said benignly. "Don't worry. We can do this, Sheridan. If I thought I couldn't, I wouldn't have jeopardised the Orders' strategy just to satisfy my own agenda."

"I trust you. This is a bold task to volunteer for, given potential consequences." Sheridan firmly shook Eril's hand, giving him a staunch nod. "Please, have a safe journey."

"We'll try." Kijo raise an eyebrow, approaching Sheridan for his own handshake. "Though I suppose it's really not up to us, is it?"

"Ever the optimist, I see." Faowri rolled her eyes lightly. "Just take care. Bad enough I don't get to join you."

Eril shook his head, his fingers brushing her arm in reassurance. "Fersan was right. Worry about yourself for now. Send us mail if anything else happens while we're travelling."

He'd been so passive during the journey here, Faowri thought, eyeing him with some bewilderment. It was as though the task had breathed new life into him. At least now she could imagine what kind of red mage he had been before Lindblum.A rather good one, she expected. Determined, self-sacrificing. And if his partnership with Cera was as strong as his endeavours to find her suggested, even better than that. Faowri knew that his description of himself as expendable was really just his way of saying he had nothing left to lose. Such a stance was tragic, especially if it would result ultimately in his loss, but she dared not entertain anything but optimism for the outcome.

Faowri bowed to the three of them, aware that she and Sheridan were, to some degree, delaying their departure. Fersan and the others had already said their farewells. If the party left now, they'd reach the gate near Dali before it would be time to rest for the night.

She held them back no longer, allowing them to depart. It was light, so at least there was less risk of them being mugged before they managed to get out of Treno. Faowri watched the three of them disappear into the streets, Nuis skittering noisily about their feet and prompting numerous reprimands from Kijo before they were out of earshot.

The group's diversity of shape and character and colour was something almost inspiring to behold in its mismatched assembly.


End file.
